Alone
by geekgrl113
Summary: The dust settles, the score is tallied. The results are not in their favor. Follow-up to Season 3 Finale.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **Well hello! It has been a while…and honestly it probably would've been even longer, but then the finale came and kicked me in the gut so here I am, with a quick and dirty (not in the gross sense of the word, mind you) one-shot meant to make the shock of the finale a little less…shocking. So consider this your **spoiler warning!** If you haven't seen the Warehouse 13 Season 3 finale…you should go watch it NOW. RIGHT NOW. And you shouldn't read this fic, because spoilers for seasons 1-3 abound.

**Disclaimer: I do not own Warehouse 13. If I did, I'd be kicking myself for not getting that fire insurance. **I do own all spelling mistakes though.

**Alone**

Claudia doesn't know much about her supposed destiny. She likes to pretend it doesn't exist, actually. She likes to tuck it away neatly at the back of her mind, much like tucking a shirt she doesn't particularly care for anymore at the back of the closet. 'Out of sight, out of mind' mentality at its finest.

But she knows enough about her supposed destiny that when she sees the withered form of Mrs. Frederic on the floor, something terrible has happened.

"Oh my God," Leena chokes. "Oh my God…_Mrs. Frederic!_" She practically screams it as she stoops to examine the blackened remains. Claudia stays rigid and removed. Her mind was already reeling from Steve…and now this...

_How can this…_ she struggles to make sense of things. _How can this be happening? How on earth can this be happening?_ She slowly sinks to her knees, oblivious to Leena's desperation. She thinks back to Dr. Calder's visit not even a year ago.

_"The Caretaker and the Warehouse are linked. If the Caretaker dies…the Warehouse dies as well."_ Claudia feels new tears fall down her face. Because if that is true…if the Caretaker can kill the Warehouse…

The Warehouse can kill the Caretaker.

Leena doesn't know. She can't know, because she thinks that Claudia's silent sobs are for Mrs. Frederic. They aren't. They are for Steve, and for Myka, and Pete…

And Artie.

She woke up a few days ago and she had a family. Now, she is alone again. She swore she'd never be alone again, but here she is, on the floor at the B&B, so far from the ones she loved. She aches to be with them, dead in the Warehouse. Nothing can drive the black thought from her mind. Not even the presence of Leena can comfort her. She hunches forward, and sobs harder.

"Claudia…" Leena must sense something is off. After all, she liked Mrs. Frederic well enough…but not enough to _sob_ about it. "Claudia, what's wrong?"

She can't hardly breathe, let alone explain it to her. But somehow, she's able to throw out the words.

_"The Warehouse. The Warehouse is dead."_ She runs her hands through her hair. She can't see straight, and her head feels oddly light. "_If Mrs. Frederic is dead…it means that…"_ Leena doesn't need her to go on. She grabs Claudia's shoulders and pulls her into a tight hug. It isn't a hug to comfort herself. She's trying to help Claudia. Trying to shield her from the reality of the situation.

Claudia resists. She even contemplates shoving Leena away, but then a spark of rationality flickers in her addled mind. Leena is all she has left here. Joshua is too far for her to feel any solace, any connection. Leena is here now, holding her close, stroking her hair like she's five years old again. And right now, that's kind of how she feels. Small. Helpless.

_So alone._

She can't imagine how long they stay that way, sobbing together in the silent B&B. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. The emptiness and sadness doesn't recede though. Claudia begins to wonder if she'll ever be alright again. She was certain she'd never be alright again after Steve. So certain, in fact, she's risked everything defying Mrs. Frederic to keep the metronome. She knows now she was probably wrong. She might have recovered from Steve.

She cannot recover from this.

Leena mutters incomprehensible words into her ear. Still hugging her tightly. She doesn't know what she's saying. Something about an old promise. About Mrs. Frederic.

Her Farnsworth rings.

She ignores it.

Her Farnsworth continues to ring. She ignores it still. She doesn't want to talk to Jane now. She never wants to see that woman again.

Leena stops murmuring. She loosens her grip on Claudia's shoulders. Claudia is surprised to discover that she doesn't like it.

"What…?"

"Claudia…" Leena whispers. Her voice is rough from crying, her eyes haggard and her face soaking wet. "Claudia, answer your Farnsworth." Anger boils in Claudia's chest.

"…_No."_ She croaks. "How can you even—"

"Claudia, Jane doesn't know. Mrs. Frederic said she's still in Hong Kong. She _can't_ know." Claudia sees where Leena is going. She shakes her head.

"No, Leena. _No._ Don't do that. Don't you dare do that."

"Claudia, _please!_" She begs. "_Please Claudia. Please." _

The girl hesitates. She wants to do as Leena says. She wants to answer the Farnsworth so badly that it physically _hurts._ But she doesn't know if she can survive the crushing disappointment that would follow.

But already, the small sliver of hope has wormed its way into her mind.

"Damn it, Leena," she snarls, yanking herself away from the woman. "_Damn it!"_ She reaches over and shoves aside some rubble. Her fingers settle on the cool black metal. It pulsates slightly as it buzzes.

_ZZZZZZZZRT. ZZZZZZZZZZRT._

She can't breathe again. Her chest is too tight. Her vision swarms with black dots.

"Claudia," Leena's voice is far off and sounds concerned. But of course she's concerned. Look at what's happened.

She shakes her head, but the dizziness doesn't fade. She coughs and waits a moment longer, already feeling the heavy weight returning. That crushing disappointment…

_ZZZZZZZZRT. ZZZZZZZRT._

God, she used to love that sound. Now it makes her sick.

She flips open the device with quaking hands. The screen is black. She can end this now. She can shut it and throw it away…no. She can do better. She can destroy it. She knows how.

Her thumb acts on its own, however. She presses the button and the red light begins to flash. The screen flickers to life.

She lets out a strangled cry. Her vision blurs with tears. But she saw it. She saw it before she passed out…she _knows she saw it._

Artie's face.

**WELL! There ya have it folks! Again, this was done quickly, in the heat of the moment. I typically avoid serious stuff…I'm more of a comedy gal. So if it comes off as sappy or overdone, my apologies. Please feel free to review if you like! I'd appreciate it. Also…not sure if I will continue this. Would anyone be interested in seeing more, or no? I value your input. **


	2. Chapter 1: Changed

**Author's Note: **Well, I am pleasantly surprised! Feedback has been so positive! A few folks even said they'd like to see more, so HERE IT IS. Now, this is my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic. We'll see where it takes us. Thanks to all who reviewed…I very much appreciate it! And now, the perfunctory **SPOILER WARNING. **If you haven't seen season 3 (or 2, or 1) of Warehouse 13, then I advise you to turn around and go watch it and not read this fic, because spoilers abound.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13. If I did, Pete the Ferret would have made a guest appearance in the finale. **I do own all spelling mistakes though.

**Chapter 1: Changed**

_**Undisclosed location in the Badlands**_

The umbilicus is cold.

It stretches before her, bathed in the harsh white light of fluorescent tubes above. The lights are different, but the umbilicus has always been cold, from what she can recall. It's such a sterile environment… so different from the almost organic warmth of Artie's office.

She falters midstride. A pinprick of pain flares alongside the memory of his office. She shakes her head and ignores it. She's got plenty of experience, ignoring the things that hurt.

She resumes her brisk pace. Her eyes fall on the retinal scanner close to the door. Of course, her retinal imprint won't be in the database. Not that it matters.

Her fingers brush the cool metal of the scanner, and in an instant she's got the cover plate off of the device, revealing the tangle of wires and computer chips underneath. She sighs contentedly. Machines are so constant. Rarely do they change. Rarely do they abandon you. Rarely do they up and die.

It takes mere seconds to disable the scanner. This isn't the first time she's hacked the device. Though to be fair, the first time around it did take a bit of work.

The door hisses as it swings open, the mechanical clank so familiar and yet slightly off. Like a cover of a favorite song: the same, yet different. It's quieter now, and quicker. She's not sure how she feels about that.

She climbs the stairs and ducks inside the office, carefully pulling up her hood. The gesture would have been useless against the durational spectrometer, but bulky security cameras show that they haven't been using that particular artifact for quite a while. She looks around the office as an odd mixture of feelings spring forth. Anger. Sadness. Disappointment. Nostalgia. She can't decide if she feels safe here, or if she feels threatened. Maybe a little of both.

Of course the office, like the door, is different now. More streamlined. Gone are the rusty metal beams, the odd mixture of dated technology. Artifacts do not sit on the bookshelves anymore. She doesn't go into the records room, but she knows it will be virtually empty. The small, makeshift kitchen is no longer there…nor the spiral staircase to the loft. Such a staircase would be somewhat pointless, as there is no more 'loft' to go to.

Even the light is different. It's more intense, like the lighting in the umbilicus. It makes hard lines and dark shadows everywhere. She finds she doesn't like it. She prefers the soft-focused look of the old office. Worn edges. Red hues. The subtle light spilling in from the Warehouse floor.

_You could change it._ A small voice at the back of her mind tells her. _You could make it the way it was._

She frowns. She's wasting time.

She pulls her jacket closer and approaches the sparse desk. She notices that there is one less desk chair now. She convinces herself it doesn't bother her.

The computer is new. An up-to-date Mac that looks just as sterile and straight-edged as the umbilicus outside. It shouldn't be in the office. Artie must hate it.

She frowns again. God, what's wrong with her?

Her hands settle on the keyboard and begin to fall into a familiar rhythm. Windows jump to the screen; tiny error messages cause a melody of beeps to emit from the computer. One by one, they disappear. Her frown begins to thaw, and a satisfied smirk takes its place. Once again, the comfort of machines wins out.

She finds the file she's looking for. Unfortunately, it's inundated with information about failing containment units, lack of neutralizer, budget cuts, complaints from town, the new chain of command…

Her frown returns. This might take longer than she's planned for.

She skims the individual reports. It has to be here _somewhere._ Her gaze shifts to the windows overlooking the Warehouse floor. She could just go down and look for it, really...

She's about to leave the computer, but a brief flash of a file label, _K39ZZZ 10-18-11_, catches her attention. She quickly opens it, reads through the content. A cold feeling spreads through her. Her face hardens. The words bring to mind things she'd rather forget.

She straightens, ready to abandon this whole idiotic scheme, but she reads the last line.

_Artifacts in containment: PW2229, aisle 12, section D. JM3872, aisle 12, section 9F…_

She recognizes one of the artifact codes._ JM3872_. She knows it by heart.

What she doesn't recognize is the new filing system. But she expected this—the Warehouse is significantly smaller now. No need for such a complex way of shelving anymore.

She jots down the information on her hand and heads for the door. Outside the office, the air is slightly stiff and a tad cooler. It no longer carries the musty aroma of a museum. Instead, it smells of plastic and wood and metal. More like Home Depot than America's Attic. Rows of shelves stretch back to the end of the Warehouse—which is visible now. Another difference. Rather, another disappointment.

She heads for the stairs, and soon she's down among the scattered boxes and crates. There are significantly fewer items on the new, uniform shelves. All are labeled with video screens.

The one thing that hasn't changed is the darkness. The lighting is the same diffused yellow glow of Shelby Bulbs.

_"You know, these bulbs, they never burn out. They're Shelby Bulbs. They were invented by Chaillet one hundred and eight years ago…"_ Artie's gruff voice echoes hauntingly in her ears. Words from a lifetime ago.

She moves on.

It takes a few minutes for her to navigate the new layout. Eventually, though, she's standing in front of aisle 12, section 9F. Her eyes scan the video screens and she can't keep the grin off her face.

_See Artie? I knew you'd cave to modern technology._ She's quite pleased that he has…the video readouts are much easier to see than the yellowed artifact cards—with their faded ink and thin layer of cobweb—so it isn't long before she finds what she's looking for.

She removes a set of crumpled purple gloves from her pocket. She doesn't move to pull them on. Too much work. Too little time.

She reaches for the item on the shelf, careful to avoid a nasty-looking potted plant. She feels the hair on the back of her neck stand on end as her hand settles against the polished wood of the artifact.

She pauses.

Initially, she thinks maybe she's just jazzed about the break in. All the adrenaline, and whatnot. But the sudden crackle of static electricity in the air tells her otherwise.

She sighs, and moves to raise her hands above her head without being asked.

"Turn around _slowly."_ A firm voice orders. Something jabs her left shoulder blade for emphasis. She knows what it is without looking.

She realizes it's probably a bad idea, but she doesn't let go of the metronome. She puts a sneer in place and turns to greet the barrel of the Tesla rifle. She stares for a minute at the stray blue sparks.

"Well," she says cheerfully. "_Crap._"

**Again, sorry for any sappiness/melodrama/OOC-ness that may occur. This is more serious than I'm used to writing, so apologies on that front. ANYWAYS! It's a little slow…it will gain speed. I think. Until then, feel free to review! Any input is always appreciated. :D **

**On a random side note: My dad used to work for the fire department with the 'famous' *insert eye roll* centennial Shelby bulb. When I saw that episode of Warehouse, I was like: DUDE! REAL LIFE ARTIFACT!**


	3. Chapter 2: Guilty as Charged

**Author's Note: **Hello all! A dear reader brought something to my attention in the last chapter, so I want to let y'all know: **This fic bounces around in time. **My sincere apologies for not making that clear. This chapter, as well as the previous, takes place several years in the future. **Spoiler Warning:** For season 1-3 of Warehouse. All episodes are fair game. **Ye've been WARNED.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13. If I did, Joshua would make many more appearances. **As per usual, I own spelling mistakes.

**Chapter 2: Guilty as Charged**

_**Undisclosed location in the Badlands, 2014**_

The rifle emits a low whine as it charges. Electricity pulses inside the glass barrel, the white streaks of energy illuminating Pete's pale, taut face in the otherwise-gloom of the Warehouse floor.

"Put down the artifact, and move away from the shelf." He says through gritted teeth. She notices that he really hasn't changed much since she last saw him. It's hard to tell in the dim light, but it looks like he's a little grey around the temples, and there are dark circles beneath his eyes…but that's it.

She raises an eyebrow. She doesn't move.

Neither does he.

"Put it down." He repeats. "I _will_ shoot you." It sounds like he's trying to convince himself that he'll go through with it, and she immediately knows that he _won't._ He has a pained look on his face, and his finger's not even on the trigger.

But while Pete's looking a little merciful, Myka is not.

The other agent stands beside him, her feet firmly planted, her grip on the gun tight and sure. She narrows her eyes.

"_Now."_ She growls. Unlike Pete, she is virtually unchanged. The same long, dark hair. The same tall, slender physique. Not a single trace of wrinkles on her face. The only thing that's different about her is the hardened expression she wears. It's unforgiving and cold. And why shouldn't it be? Why should she expect anything different?

_You were one of them._ A traitorous voice reasons. _They forgave H.G., didn't they? They even reinstated her. You're looking for the same thing._

_I'm not._ She doesn't like to argue with herself. It reminds her too much of her time spent at Mellinger's.

Both agents wait, tense and anxious, for her to comply.

She doesn't.

Instead, she lowers her hands, and leans back against the shelf. She behaves like they're having a casual conversation. Not like she's being held at gunpoint.

"Really, guys?" she asks. She doesn't mask the sarcasm. "The _rifles?_ That's a little overkill, don't you think?" Pete looks like he might just agree; the end of the barrel falls slightly, mirroring his glower. Myka, though, nudges the gun closer.

"We won't ask again." The older woman informs her. The words are a thinly-veiled threat.

Slowly, cautiously, she places the metronome on the ground. She doesn't break eye contact, and the sneer never leaves her face. Myka's harsh gaze follows her closely. Pete squirms uncomfortably. Only once she has her hands up again, and she's stepped away from the metronome, do they relax a little. They breathe. Myka opens her mouth to issue the next command.

"Good. Now just—"

She doesn't let Myka finish.

She reaches into her coat pocket and grips the Tesla grenade within. Before the two have a chance to react, she's got the bomb out, the pin removed. She tosses it into the air as she stoops to grab the metronome. In one swift motion, she's got what she's come here for, and she's already half way down the aisle, her sneakers banging against the concrete floor as fast as she can manage. A flash of light explodes behind her, followed by the shrill shriek of the grenade. She grins.

"Too easy." She decides as she rounds a corner. Her eyes face forward, and her footfalls come to a sudden, screeching halt.

"I beg to differ." Artie says as he pulls the trigger.

_Damn karma._

The arc of purple lightning leaps towards her faster than she can register. The jarring shriek—just moments before a sign of victory—now fills her ears, along with an unpleasant ring. The jolt makes her teeth ache and her scalp sting. For a frightening instant, every inch of her body _burns_.

Then, just as quickly as it comes, the feeling is gone, leaving in its wake a painful numbness. She's out before her knees hit the ground, but there's a subconscious flicker of discomfort, and enough residual awareness to marvel at how Pete and Myka could have ever survived this so many times.

After all, Claudia Donovan's never been Tesla'd before.

**Another chapter down! Hopefully folks are still enjoying the story. And yes...I made a not-so-subtle reference to my other fic, _Never Been Tesla'd._ ANYWAYS... Next up: Back in 2011...**


	4. Chapter 3: Dead Ends

**Author's Note: **Hello! Alright, we're back in time again, which from now on shall be denoted by the use of past-tense. (The prologue is the only exception.) Reorient your brain accordingly! Thanks to all who reviewed on previous chapters…I appreciate it! **Spoiler Warning:** Seasons 1-3 of Warehouse 13 are fair game.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13. If I did, the El Camino would still be with us. **I claim all spelling mistakes.

**Chapter 3: Dead Ends**

_**Leena's Bed and Breakfast. October 18**__**th**__**, 2011.**_

Leena never paced.

She wasn't the kind of person who paced. She was the kind of person who told _other people_ not to pace. She was the kind of person who remained calmly in her seat, her head clear and her gaze steady. She was the strong one. The constant one. Whatever chaos the Warehouse decided to bring into their lives, she was the only one who managed to remain aloof and untouched by the turmoil.

Now, though, she found herself in the thick of it.

She couldn't stop staring at Mrs. Frederic. She couldn't pull her eyes from the shriveled, dried body of a woman who seemed so powerful, so full of life just mere hours ago. It seemed impossible to her mind that she was actually dead. That she was really, truly _gone._

So she paced.

She walked back and forth, back and forth, her hands reaching for a sheet in the corner that she'd been using as a drop cloth. She gently placed it over the…_She can't bring herself to call it a corpse. Not yet._ She glanced over at the couch, contemplating checking on Claudia, but the front door opened, and three figures appeared in the hallway.

The relief was enough to force her into a nearby chair.

"_Artie,"_ She dissolved into tears again, but she was beaming. She looked at their faces…at their dusty, soot-smeared faces, and thanked whatever God was listening that they were _alive._ "Oh, Artie…"

He walked over and hugged her. Well, not so much 'hug' as collapsed against her, and the tenuous strength he'd been holding vanished in an instant. And it was only then, feeling his presence beside her, actually putting her arms around him and hugging him, that she accepted that he was really okay. That they were _all_ really ok. She'd talked to him over the Farnsworth…but even then, she had to wonder if it was just some horrible hallucination—it was simply too good to be true.

She didn't let him go for a long time. Eventually, though, he grumbled into her shoulder that he needed to sit. She reluctantly allowed him to move unsteadily to the chair next to hers. He sighed, and didn't look at the sheet-covered Mrs. Frederic.

Pete and Myka did, though.

"I didn't really…" Pete muttered. He slumped down and gingerly lifted the sheet. His face went pale under the grime. "…believe it. I didn't actually think…"

Myka shook her head a little, motioning for him to stand. He understood her, in spite of the fact that she hadn't said a word. _Don't bother. What's done is done. Try not to dwell on it. Remember, Pete: Business as usual, or you lose it._ He agreed. It worked with Steve, right? It could work here, too.

"Where's Claudia?" Artie demanded. Leena nodded mutely to the couch in the other room. Artie removed himself from the chair faster than they would have thought possible of a man who just seconds prior had all but fallen into said chair.

She turned to the remaining agents.

"So…H.G.'s…" she looked at Pete and Myka, hoping they'd simply fill in the blank. They did, and simply nodded. "And the Warehouse? It's really gone?"

Another stiff nod was the answer from Pete. A sad, teary smile was the answer from Myka.

"Afraid so."

"Claudia was right," Leena admitted. "She said that Mrs. Frederic died because…because the Warehouse was destroyed."

"They're linked," Myka lapsed into her scholarly tone almost without thinking. "During the whole Warehouse 2 fiasco, we found out they have some kind of…bond. A physical link." She cast a weary glance at the sheet. "She said that if she died, the Warehouse died. I didn't know it could…work both ways." Leena nodded, though she still didn't know what that really meant. At least, what that meant for the rest of them.

Artie entered the room and returned to his chair. He sat down heavily and massaged his right temple.

"I called Vanessa," he told them. Myka bristled.

"Is Claudia okay?" she wanted to know. Pete looked ready to lunge towards the couch. Artie held up a hand.

"She's fine." He snorted at his own remark. "As fine as a twenty-year-old can be, going through something like this." He shook his head and continues. "That isn't why I called Vanessa."

"Then what—? "

"There's…something you don't know. About Mrs. Frederic. And about Claudia." He hedged. Leena could feel his anxiety in the air. It was so potent, it made her squirm in her seat. "But we can't talk about that now. What we need to talk about is _this."_

Leena knew what it was before he pulled it from his pocket. She'd seen it in enough photos, heard several rumors about it.

MacPherson's watch gleamed brightly against Artie's blackened hand, the rhythmic ticking sound conjuring up an unpleasant reminder of the metronome. Leena's eyes darted over to the artifact. She needed to get rid of it before Claudia came to…

"Please tell me that thing can take us back in time." Pete was only half joking. Maybe not even half. Artie shook his head a little sadly.

"It's not that simple." He told them, placing it on the table. "You know James was something of a…rebel. He didn't trust the Regents. He—"

"Yeah, yeah, he wanted to use the artifacts in the Warehouse for his own purposes. We know Artie…we have firsthand experience." Pete reminded him. "How does that help us bring H.G. and the Warehouse back?"

"It doesn't." Artie said. "At least, not H.G. And not Steve…and not Mrs. Frederic."

Renewed silence settled around them. Pete shoulders sagged. Leena knew what he must have been thinking: that Artie had made it seem like the watch was the answer to their problems. She offered him a sympathetic smile. He returned the favor with a sad nod.

"We can't bring back the dead. Not without…problems." Artie didn't expand on the topic. He knew that they were well aware of the consequences of such an action.

Leena tried to fight it, but the fresh memory of Marcus breaking in and threatening to kill her emerged from the back of her mind. He might have been walking around, breathing...but his aura, _and his eyes_, had been utterly lifeless.

"The dead stay dead," Artie continued, "because the watch doesn't deal with dead _people_." He closed his eyes.

"It deals with dead Warehouses."

**The plot thickens! Hopefully folks are still enjoying the story, in spite of its timey-wimey nature. (Yes, I'm a Doctor Who fan.) Anyways, feel free to review! NEXT UP: A trip to Warehouse 12…**


	5. Chapter 4: Rewind

**A/N: **Hello again! As always, many thanks to those who read and reviewed and faved and so on and so forth! We're still back in time…and we're about to get a LOT of explanation, so prepare yourself. **SPOILER WARNING: **Seasons 1-3 are fair game.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13. If I did, Rebecca would still be alive. **Spelling mistakes are mine.

**Chapter 4: Rewind**

_**"The first Warehouse was built in ninety-eight. Eighteen ninety-eight. We didn't have a handle on how to…mm…store stuff. It burned down.**_**" **

_**Warehouse 12, 1898**_

_"Move, move, __**move**__!" _

_Caturanga's words were barely audible over the roar of the flames. He was shoving agents left and right, barking orders and trying to clear the Warehouse floor. The fire pushed forward mercilessly, devouring the wooden crates and sending towering shelves tumbling down in a fiery heap._

_"Helena, I said move!" He barked at her. She started a bit at his militaristic tone. Where was the funny old man who loved nothing more than a quiet game of chess and a cup of hot tea? "Get out of here!"_

_"But…the Warehouse—"_

_"__**Move**__!"_

_He gripped her shoulders and quite literally __**threw her**__ towards the back door of the office. Any other woman would have been horrified at such a barbaric maneuver, but Helena Wells was simply grateful. His brutish way of handling the situation had removed her from her momentary stupor._

_She bolted from the burning Warehouse._

_She climbed the shadowy stairway, her ragged breathing coming, not from the effort of running up several flights of stairs, but from the thick, black, billowing smoke that seemed to be following at her heels. _

_**We're going to be discovered**__, she realized. They couldn't very well explain away smoke that was seemingly coming from nowhere. Not even she, with her wild imagination, could come up with a reasonable explanation._

_She heard more shouting up ahead. She squinted, and in the inky darkness of the tunnel, she could just barely see the silhouette of Willy._

_"Willy!" she yelled. Or, she tried to yell. It came out as a raspy cough. The figure up ahead slowed and turned back to face her._

_"Dear God, H.G." Willy wheezed. His face was smeared in soot. It matched the rest of him. "Are you alright?"_

_"No better than you, I'm afraid," she muttered numbly as she met him on the last set of stairs. They hurried up the remainder together, Willy taking her arm as she began coughing violently once more. Somehow, she managed to tell him: "Caturanga is still down there."_

_Willy didn't say anything to that. Rather, his grip on her arm tightened for a moment, and he quickened his pace. She struggled to match it, and eventually the two stumbled out into the street, a group of chimneysweeps standing before them._

_"Wolcott!" One of them exclaimed. Helena blinked, and sluggishly realized that they weren't chimneysweeps at all. They were Warehouse agents, clothed in ash and soot and filth. "Wells!"_

_Willy waited until he was certain she was alright before letting go of her arm. She continued to cough for long minutes. She gave up trying to be discreet about it; she was certain she didn't appear at all ladylike, hacking as she was...but she no longer cared. _

_"Is everyone out?" she heard Willy ask. The agent who greeted them—she thought it was MacShane underneath the grime—nodded._

_"Yes. You three were the last…" MacShane dropped his voice. "Where's Caturanga?"_

_"Still down below." Willy said in an equally quiet voice. MacShane swore. She knew he must have been upset, because he didn't bother to apologize to her. "He…what of the fire brigade?"_

_"We sent O'Brian and Chamberlain off to cause a…distraction of sorts." _

_"You gave them an artifact." Willy accused him. MacShane shrugged._

_"We must protect the Warehouse...or what's left of it, anyhow."_

_The three grew quiet after that, each tensely waiting for the inevitable clatter of hooves and wooden wheels against the cobblestone street. But as the night wore on, and the smoke continued to plume from beneath the alley, no one came. No fire brigades, no curious Londoners…and, most notably, no Caturanga._

_After what must've been hours, Helena had accepted that he'd most likely perished in the fire, along with the rest of the Warehouse. Of course, she didn't say so aloud. The rest of the agents milled about, unsure as to how to proceed. At some point, O'Brian and Chamberlain rejoined the group. Not that anyone would have noticed; they all looked the same in the dark, with their grimy complexions and grey suits. Only Helena was recognizable, as she was the sole female._

_"Well…" someone said. "Should we…tell someone? The Regents, perhaps?"_

_"How 're we goin' t' tell the Regents if we haven' ever seen 'em?" O'Brian's distinct lilt identified him as the particularly sooty man missing his jacket. "D'they even really exist, d'ya think?"_

_"Of course they exist," Willy sighed. "Unfortunately, Caturanga was the only one who ever had any contact with the Regents. I wouldn't have the faintest __**idea**__ as to how to reach them…"_

_"What about this…Mr. Fredericks fellow?" she suggested. "I've heard Caturanga mention him several times before…perhaps he might know how—"_

_"There will be no need for that."_

_The entire group whipped their heads around to stare openly at the short, bent frame of Caturanga. The small man stood, unharmed and spotless, at the entrance of Warehouse 12, smiling as if nothing had happened._

_"Wha…?"_

_"Now, if you're quite finished gadding about, there is work to be done." He stepped forward and patted her on the shoulder. His hand was solid and real; she wasn't imagining this._

_"And for you, Miss Wells, I shall make my finest cup of herbal tea, and see if we can't get rid of that cough of yours."_

_"But…how…Caturanga, how are you not—" Willy was about to start a storm of questions, but Caturanga had already taken her arm and headed for the tunnel. They went down, and for a frightening moment, she was certain that Caturanga had lost his mind. She could still see the smoke, still feel the heat of the fire._

_But they descended steadily and saw no sighs of the flames. The brick walls were pristine—in fact, they looked __**better**__ than pristine. They looked almost __**new.**_

_"I think…you had better explain how this…happened…" she muttered slowly when they at last emerged from the tunnel and walked out onto the Warehouse floor. The rest of the agents shuffled in behind them, rather reluctantly, but uttered a collective gasp upon entering._

_The Warehouse, hours before a hell on earth, was fine. The shelves were all in order, the artifacts seemingly untouched. Gone were any traces of the fire._

_"I would be happy to explain." Caturanga grinned and his eyes sparked behind his small wireframe glasses. He slipped his hand into his vest pocket, and removed a small silver watch. "And I'm sure you'll be most intrigued Miss Wells…as it has everything to do with time—" _

"Whoa, whoa, _wait,"_ Pete voice interrupted Artie's. "You're telling me James MacPherson got his hands on a watch from Warehouse 12?"

The four were in the dining room. Myka and Leena sat at the table, quietly ignoring the dead bodies on the floor, while Pete and Artie stood. Pete had his arms crossed over his chest, and a sour look on his face. Artie just looked tired.

"No. I mean, yes. Well, not like you think—" the older agent tried to explain. Pete didn't let him get much further.

"Artie! You won't even let me play with the ping pong table anymore. How was it that _Jimmy_,"he spat the name with disdain, "got to keep a time traveling Rolex in his back pocket?"

"It isn't a time travel device." Artie told him, exasperated.

"But you just said—"

"Maybe," Myka raised her voice as she interjected. Both Pete and Artie stopped talking, "you should let Artie finish, Pete."

"Thank you, Myka." Artie sounded genuinely grateful. She gave a slight nod, even if she'd interrupted more for the sake of her own curiosity than to actually _help_ him.

"As I was saying," Artie started again. "James didn't _start off_ as a megalomaniac. Actually, he was quite a good Warehouse agent." He smiled sadly at the memory. "He was the one who _found_ the watch, after it had been missing for some one hundred odd years. The Regents assumed that it was lost during the move from London to South Dakota. But James was very much interested in Warehouse 12. He did quite a bit of research on the agents there, as well as the cases they worked."

"Well, that explains a lot," Pete muttered. He looked poised to go on, but Myka gave him a warning look. There was no need to dredge up the whole H.G. episode.

No need to speak ill of the dead.

Pete took the hint and let Artie continue.

"He discovered the watch after doing a bit of investigating on Caturanga, the head agent at the time. Apparently he turned into a bit of a recluse shortly after the turn of the century."

"That was right around when H.G. was bronzed," Myka added softly. She shook her head. "How…sad. Can you imagine? Your own student…" her voice faded, and it was a few minutes before Artie went on. When he did, his voice was quiet.

"It was among his personal affects, boxed in the Warehouse 12 section." He said. Pete opened his mouth, but Leena beat him to the question.

"But Artie…why was he allowed to keep it?" she wore an expression of distressed concern. Artie was initially confused, but then it occurred to him that it was probably more the mention of MacPherson than the watch. He shrugged.

"To be honest, I didn't know he even _had_ it. Eventually I figured it out, and we argued. _A lot._"

"You thought it should be shelved." Pete guessed. Artie gave a solemn nod.

"Right. As all artifacts should be. But James was…persuasive." Artie said, not without a touch of bitterness. "_That_, and when he told me what it could do…it seemed like a better idea to keep it handy." He admitted. Pete raised his eyebrows, while Myka and Leena sat back in their chairs. They were having a hard time imagining Artie—_their Artie_—letting someone keep an artifact around.

"So what does it do, exactly?" Myka wanted to know. Really, she was dying to know. Artie took a seat, as all this explaining was wearing him out. He rubbed his face and propped his head on his hand.

"It's my understanding that it's made from the same materials as the Warehouse itself. The watch was originally intended to be held by the current Caretaker, should something go wrong or something happen to the artifacts."

"Why did his Catarang guy have it?" Pete asked.

_"Caturanga."_ Artie reflexively corrected him. "Back in the 1800's, the Regents weren't as… involved as they are now. Neither was the Caretaker. I assume that the watch was merely left in the office, to be used in case of an emergency."

"Like the fire!" Myka exclaimed.

"_Exactly_ like the fire."

"Okay Artie, _seriously._ What does it _do?_"

"It's…well…it's something of a recording device."

"What?" Myka, Pete, and Leena chorused. They each wore the same baffled look. The older agent grinned.

"As long as it's been ticking, it's been 'recording' the Warehouse. It's linked, you see. So, at its current time setting, it has everything from the time it was created up until _right now_. All we have to do is wind it backwards, and it will…turn back the clock on the Warehouse, so to speak."

"That…is quite possibly the coolest artifact _ever_. Better than a DVR." Pete murmured behind Myka. Any other time, she would've punched him, but she was simply in awe. So in awe, in fact, that Pete's sudden, loud clap made her jump and nearly fall out of her chair.

"What are we waiting for? Let's use that bad boy and put the Warehouse back together." He said, looking optimistic. Artie shook his head.

"Not yet."

"What? Why not?" Pete's hopeful smile was gone in a flash.

"I need to talk to Claudia first," he held up a hand, effectively silencing the questions that were ready to fly out of their mouths. "We're going to let her sleep...she's had a bit of a shcok, after all. Then I'm going to talk to her. _Then_ we use the watch."

He stood from the table and turned to leave the room, but Myka managed to throw out one last question.

"Why?"

Artie didn't turn back to face them when he answered. He merely tossed the reply over his slumped shoulders.

"Because the watch won't work without her."

**Hopefully, I spelled Caturanga's name correctly. Apologies if I did not. ALSO! The quote at the beginning was taken from the Pilot ep, which is why it doesn't really fit into continuity, but I still wanted to use it. So pretend he was talking about Warehouse 12. Oh, and feel free to review! I always appreciate any input…and I'd be especially interested to see if I did an okay job with Warehouse 12. :) ****NEXT UP! Back in 2014…**


	6. Chapter 5: Happiness and a Warm Gun

**A/N: **Hello all! Before I forget, I want to just say THANKS to my awesome beta reader IDreamOfDistantSeas. THANK YOU! And of course, thank you to readers and reviewers! This chapter is a little...different. Hopefully folks enjoy it! **Spoiler Warning: **Seasons 1-3 of Warehouse 13.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13. If I did, that vacuum from "Breakdown" would have its own animated miniseries.**

**Chapter 5: Happiness and a Warm Gun**

_**Undisclosed location in the Badlands, 2014**_

Trailer is happy.

He wags his tail and lets his tongue loll out of the side of his mouth. He doesn't even care that a few stray drops of drool land on the carpet.

He's just so happy.

He tilts his head to the side and sniffs at the office air, just to check. Normally, the office smells like dust, and paper, and the tall man with the smelly hair, and the tall woman with the biscuits. And of course, it always smells like Artie. Trailer can't really remember what it used to smell like…but he remembers that there used to be more smells. Older smells. More interesting and mysterious smells.

Lately it's been the same smells…but today! Today there's a new smell. And Trailer can remember this one.

He pads forward quietly and settles himself on the floor. He nudges his nose against the shoe, and takes another deep breath. Yes…he's sure now. He knows the smell. It makes him think of back before…back before Artie was sad. Back before everyone was so angry.

He yawns as he tries to remember the name. Names are hard. He always forgets what they call the man with the smelly hair, and the woman with the biscuits. He knows the other woman is called 'Leena' and Artie's name is easy. It's buried deep in his mind. Like the bone out in front of the Warehouse, or the tennis ball in Leena's flowerbed.

_Think, think, think…_he yawns again. He can't think of the name. But that doesn't matter. He's still happy, because Artie's pup is back, and that will make Artie happy.

He nestles his head against her leg. He whines a little, and drips more drool. He looks up, hopeful. Maybe she'll give his head a pat, like she used to. Or scratch his ears, like she used to. It was a long time ago, but Trailer can remember, because Artie can remember.

He sighs and snuffles. He's still happy…

His ears perk up. He can hear someone outside. He jumps to his feet, and turns around. He paces back and forth the between the desk and the door. His tail wags harder. He's excited! Artie's here!

The door opens. Artie lumbers in, and Trailer greets him. Of course, Artie doesn't really understand, but Trailer doesn't mind. Artie always rubs his ears anyway.

But today he doesn't. Trailer waits a bit longer and stares up at him, waiting for the usual rub. Artie just walks right past him, though. He sits down in a chair across from his pup.

Trailer isn't so happy anymore.

His tail stops wagging. It trails behind him as he slowly makes his way to Artie's side. He whimpers softly, asking him what's wrong, even though he knows Artie won't answer.

Artie sighs. Says something that Trailer can't understand.

"Oh, kiddo…"

Artie sounds so sad. This confuses Trailer. He thought Artie would be happier, because the girl was back. But he isn't.

Trailer whines again.

He lies down against the cool concrete floor and snorts. Then, he must drift off into sleep, because he wakes up a little later, to the sound of Artie shouting. More words he can't understand, of course, but they're loud and _angry._

"What the hell were you thinking?" Trailer shies away. He hates shouting. It hurts his ears. "_Breaking into the Warehouse._"

"I've done it before."

"That was…completely different!"

"I don't see how!" The girl is shouting back at Artie. Trailer decides it'd be best if he hid under the desk. He hurries hides in the comforting shadow, but pokes his head out just a little. He's still curious, after all. "I was trying to bring someone back from the dead. That's what I'm trying to do now!"

"You _can't_ Claudia!"

_Claudia._ Trailer's ears twitch. He can remember the name now.

The girl says something. Yells it. Artie steps back, and Trailer scoots under the desk once more because while Artie sounded angry, she sounds angr_ier_. She tries to get up from the chair, but her arms are kind of pulled back behind her, and she has something on her paws. Trailer decides to risk the yelling and leans his head forward to sniff them. They smell like hot metal.

He doesn't like it, but he's distracted by the other smells on her hands. They kind of smell like metal too…but not so much. They smell like metal and those blue things he always sees on Artie's paws. He licks her fingers a little. She jumps in her chair. Turns around to look at him.

"Oh…Trailer…" her voice is calmer now, and Trailer recognizes his own name. He wags his tail and says hello.

Her mouth kind of twitches up. She doesn't seem angry anymore.

"Hey, boy…" she turns her chair away, and for a minute Trailer's sad. But they he feels her hand against his ear.

Trailer's happy again.

His tail thumps against the side of the desk. _Fwump. Fwump. Fwump._

For a long time they don't say anything else. The girl continues to scratch his ear, though. He likes that.

"You shouldn't have come back," Artie eventually says. The girl stops scratching his ear. He kind of inches his snout forward a little, so that his nose is pressed up against the underside of her paw. He hopes she'll understand that he wants her to keep scratching.

"Yeah, well…"

"No, Claudia…it was a stupid thing to do. The Regents—"

"The Regents won't do anything to me." Trailer winces. She sounds angry again, and she's certainly not scratching his ears now. But her paws are kind of twitching a little. "They're still hoping I'll change my mind, isn't that right?"

"Claudia—"

"Right?" Artie steps back again. His mouth kind of droops. Just like Trailer's tail.

"They…yes. They're still hoping you'll reconsider."

Trailer keeps his eyes on Claudia's paws. The metal bands make a kind of quiet buzzing noise. His ears don't like it.

"I'm not going to."

Artie steps forward, leans in close to the girl's muzzle.

"_Listen to me,_" Artie says. "If you don't cooperate, they're going to do something _a lot worse_ than electro-cuff you to a desk chair."

"Shouldn't have used the electro-cuffs Artie." The buzzing bands clatter to the floor. Trailer jumps back, startled, and tells them so.

"Rrrawrf!" Artie looks scared too.

"What—"

"I _designed_ them. Think I wouldn't know how to get out of them?" She stands from the chair. Trailer looks at her. Is she leaving? He hopes not…

"I'm out of here."

"I don't think so."

Trailer sneezes. A sudden, new smell fills the office, and he knows it must be one of _them_. He can smell his family before he sees them. He can't do that with _them._

He turns around, and sure enough, one of _them_ is standing in the office. He doesn't really like _them_, but it's the yellow-haired one. The one who kind of smells like the tall man. She has one of those noisy, sparking things in her paws. He tries to think of what they call it…a Tesla?

He growls. He hates Teslas. They smell like hot metal and they make a noise that hurts his ears and they're too bright for his eyes and—

"Trailer, _shush."_ Artie tells him. Trailer understands his name, and he knows that Artie wants him to stop growling.

He doesn't.

"You're staying _right here,_ Agent Donovan." The woman with the yellow hair says. Claudia takes a step back, just like Artie did before. She must be upset. "And we're going to finish the conversation we started three years ago."

The woman's mouth does that twitchy thing. Trailer's pretty sure they call it a 'smile.' But he doesn't like the way it looks on her. It isn't nice. Not like Artie's. Not like Claudia's.

Artie puts a paw on Claudia's arm. He points to the chair. She sits down. Trailer stops growling. Is she staying? Is Claudia staying? He'd like it if she'd stay. He wags his tail at the prospect.

Trailer is happy again.

**This chapter was so much fun to write. No joke, most enjoyable part of the whole story. Hopefully I did Trailer justice. He's one of my favorite characters. ANYWAYS! Feel free to review! I always appreciate it. NEXT UP! Artie and Claudia talk in 2011…**


	7. Chapter 6: Promises

**A/N: **Hello yet again! And now the usual thank-yous to readers, reviewers, folks who faved, etc. I appreciate it! Now then, down to business...we're back in time again. Is anyone confused yet? I know I am. **SPOILER WARNING: **Season 1-3 of Warehouse 13.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13. If I did, we'd see more of Brenda, the infamous mail woman. **Thanks to my awesome beta reader, IDreamOfDistantSeas, there's no possibility of spelling mistakes. And if there are, it's my fault. Not hers.

**Chapter 6: Promises**

_**Leena's Bed and Breakfast, October 19**__**th**__**, 2011**_

Artie sat at the end of the couch, and waited.

He didn't dare disturb the slumbering apprentice. He'd told the others that he was concerned for her health, as she'd been through…a lot. But really, he didn't want to wake her because he wasn't certain she'd have a peaceful night's rest ever again.

He cast infrequent glances in her direction now and again, trying to remember the last time he'd seen her so calm. He couldn't recall. With everything that had happened…

He closed his eyes. Tried to think of when he last saw her smile.

_Back before…before all of this. Before Steve left…before Atlanta…_He smiled sadly. The fez incident.

He wondered if he could make her smile like that again.

He doubted it.

She stirred slightly beneath the plaid blanket Leena provided. Again, he refrained from waking her up. She deserved sleep. They all deserved sleep, really. He tried sending the rest of them off to bed, but of course they all refused, each providing various excuses. Only Pete was able to come up with a convincing one.

"I'll have nightmares." He said with a childlike frankness.

Artie believed him.

So here they were, at one in the morning, Myka and Pete were milling around in the dining room, waiting for Dr. Calder to show. Leena had retreated to the sanctity of her kitchen. The occasional clatter of metal pans and whir of the Kitchenaid mixer suggested she was making something. It amazed Artie that she was able to bounce back so quickly, after Marcus, and Mrs. Frederic….

But then, he thought, it was probably just to take her mind off the present. She was no better off than the rest of them—the baking was merely a coping mechanism.

He settled back into his vigil. He didn't know how long he'd been waiting. Long enough to get lost in thought. Long enough to blame himself for everything that had gone wrong in the young woman's life. If not for him, she wouldn't be involved in any of this…probably in college. Not just any college, either. She'd be at MIT or Caltech. She'd be safe from the Regents and their mysterious plans for her.

Plans that were to take effect as soon as Dr. Calder arrived.

He rubbed at his beard, anxious. He hadn't been keen on the plan from the start. When Mrs. Frederic approached him…oh, was it a year ago already? She informed him that Claudia would become _very_ important to the Warehouse. He'd asked a dozen questions, read through stacks of files and investigated every possible angle, but he couldn't figure out why they needed _her._ Specifically.

And that was why he wanted to keep her as far from the Regents as possible.

She stirred again, and blinked open a bleary eye. The other followed suit. There was much blinking…much watering of red-rimmed eyes.

"Hey, kiddo." He said weakly. He used the nickname, even though it was no longer fitting, really.

She stared at him for a moment, still fighting off the remnants of deep sleep. After a few beats of silence, she jerked upright and threw her arms around him.

_"Artie," _she mumbled into his shoulder. He awkwardly returned the hug, and blinked back tears that were _not_, he convinced himself, at all related to the current situation. He merely had…'something in his eye.'

Again, he waited. He didn't pull away, he didn't make a move. He just sat there, and allowed Claudia to hug him for as long as she deemed necessary.

Which apparently was quite a while.

Eventually, she let him go, and he coughed to mask the fact that his throat had gone all raspy. (Again, not at all related to current circumstances, of course…)

"I thought you were dead." She croaked out. He noticed that her eyes were almost as red as her hair.

"What did I tell you? I'm going to be around for a long while yet." He assured her, using the old line. It had worked last year; she'd smiled and all was well.

She didn't smile now. She just looked…grim.

"More promises you obviously can't keep," she said. Not in a bitter way…more like she was stating fact. It was bleak and void of all optimism.

He stared at her, and wondered what happened to his ever-enthusiastic, ever-cheerful apprentice. Where was the girl who was hardly fazed by a dunk in a vat of bubbling poison? Where was the girl who _added_ entries to her contingency file, just for the heck of it? The girl who printed up the killer artifact t-shirts? The girl who told him, "Artie, it's hope. How can it be false?"

His troubled thoughts took a back seat as she hugged him again. It was less desperate this time, and she didn't cry into his shoulder. She just kind of leaned against him.

"I just…I saw Mrs. F and I…freaked a little. You know, because of…" She looked at him with a 'you fill in the rest' kind of expression. He nodded.

"Leena told me. You…you were right. But H.G.—" he stopped. It struck him that he was about to deliver bad news. Was she…could she handle that just now?

"But H.G. what?" she wanted to know. He swallowed. He stammered for the right words…but he didn't need to bother. She was smart. She was able to guess.

"Wow," she laughed bitterly. "This just gets…better and better."

"She saved us." Artie tried to rationalize it, like it would make it okay somehow. She just shook her head.

"That doesn't mean…that doesn't make it any less…" she couldn't get the words out. She shook her head again, before allowing it to fall forward into her hands. "I can't do this, Artie. Everything's so screwed up right now."

His heart ached at the words, because they were so true. Everything _was_ pretty much screwed up, and he was fairly certain things couldn't ever go back to the way they were. He looked at her, and was reminded of when she'd first stumbled across the Warehouse. _Stumbled_. He can't help but scoff at such an ill-chosen phrase. '_Broke into'_ was far more appropriate.

She'd looked the same. Defeated, pale, desperate, trying to deal with what was going on around her in some kind of sane manner. And the situation had been very similar.

_Everything was so screwed up._

But he'd fixed it.

He didn't know if he could fix this, though.

Well…she wouldn't like his solution, anyway.

"Claudia," he started, gently placing a hand on her stiff shoulder. "We need to talk about the Warehouse. And Mrs. Frederic."

She straightened, rubbed at her tired eyes.

"Alright…sure," she said to him, trying to rise to the occasion. "I can't tell you much about Mrs. F…Leena would know better, she saw her fall. I was—"

"No," he stopped her. "Not about happened. About what will happen," he gripped the pocket watch until his knuckles were white. He was dreading the oncoming conversation.

"What…?"

There was a sudden knock at the front door. Artie bristled, and jumped up to get it, but Leena beat him to it. She was already striding down the front hall, her hands and shirt dotted with baking flour.

"Leena—!" he shouted. The timing was wrong. He hadn't had a chance to talk to her. To tell her what was going to happen.

"Artie, what's going on?" Claudia asked him. He shot her a guilty look.

"Ah…"

"Artie," his eyes darted over to Vanessa Calder, who was now standing in the foyer. She looked rattled. Her white coat was rumpled and slightly askew, her hair windblown and tangled. In one hand, she carried a small, black Doctor's bag. In the other, she held…_something else_.

"I came as soon as I could manage…" she said breathlessly, stepping into the living room. Artie looked stricken. He desperately wanted to drag her from the room and tell her to wait…to hold off for a bit. But it was too late for that. She was here, and Claudia had already seen the artifact she had in her hand.

Pete and Myka wandered in, drawn by the sudden commotion. They nodded their greetings, but Pete cocked his head slightly as his eyes fell on the simple green ribbon in Dr. Calder's hand.

"What…?" he asked to no one in particular. Myka had a questioning look as well.

Artie was at a loss for words. He wanted to talk to all of them at once…but he had too many different things to say. For a long while, he stood frozen, trying to decide what needed to be said first.

Finally, he made a decision.

"Claudia…I was about to tell you. Mrs. Frederic is dead…and we need another Caretaker to take her place. We can't rebuild the Warehouse until we—" he blurted in a rush.

"No." she said. _"No."_ She raised her voice slightly in volume…less with determination than outright _fear._

_"_Claudia," he began, but he was stopped by the look on her face. An expression of utter betrayal. It was familiar—he'd seen it before.

_When you told her about Steve,_ he thought to himself. But he was wrong. At least, that wasn't where he recognized it from. She had that same look a long time ago. She was much younger.

He blinked. His mind was playing tricks on him, because he was standing in the B&B…but he found himself back in Joshua's lab. He saw her much younger face, and heard her much younger voice, when she stared at him and muttered,

"_You promised."_

_xxxxx_

**Another chapter down! Moving ever forward, towards the EXCITING CLIMAX! Also, on a side note, I forgot to mention something last chapter. The whole 'blue things that Artie wears on his paws' was Trailer's way of referring to the purple gloves. Dogs can see a limited range of colors, mostly blues and yellows. Hence, the gloves are blue to Trailer! Review to let me know if you're clever and totally knew that already. :D (Cause personally, I had to look it up!)**

**Also, I refer to Claudia as an apprentice still because I like that word. It has a cool, old-timey feel. She's not an assistant, or junior agent, she's an **_**apprentice.**_** Even if she was kind of promoted this last season. Heh.**

**As always, please feel free to review! It really does help, and I'm always interested to see what folks think. NEXT UP! In 2014, Claudia gets some unpleasant news…**


	8. Chapter 7: Trapped

**A/N: **Hello all! Thanks to all who read and reviewed! Okay, this is gonna be a lengthy author's note, because I sense that this chapter might spark some…feelings. Fair warning: This chapter features a slightly OOC Jane. I say slightly because I can kinda justify her actions, but I'll get into that at the end of the chapter. Please know, though, that I love the Jane character, and really don't think she'd ever do something like this. BUT! This piece called for a villain and…oh, you'll see. **SPOILER WARNING: **Season 1-3 of Warehouse 13

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13. If I did, there would definitely be a Doctor Who crossover in the works. **My dear beta reader IDreamOfDistantSeas keeps spelling mistakes at bay.

**Chapter 7: Trapped**

_**Undisclosed location in the Badlands, 2014**_

_This isn't happening._

She's not sitting across from Jane Lattimer. She's not handcuffed to a chair...again. She's not avoiding eye contact with Artie. She's not ashamed, upset, angry. She's not being held at gunpoint. She's not watching her plan fall apart at the seams.

_This isn't happening._

Artie clears his throat somewhere behind her. Coughs a little.

"Uh, Jane…do you really think the Tesla is necessary?" he asks pointedly.

_He's on your side. _The brief flash of hope comes on reflexively…like a kneejerk reaction. She quickly dismisses the thought; she reasons it away.

_He's never liked violence._

"Since when did Regents start packing heat?" she asks, not without a generous amount of snark. "Thought you guys were all about 'hands off.'" She can practically hear Artie's unspoken groan in her mind. Feel his narrowed eyes burning a hole in the back of her head. She's disappointing him._ Again._

_I don't mean it, Artie…_

"True," Jane ignores the sarcasm. If she's at all bothered by Claudia's comment, she doesn't show it. "But occasionally, the situation will demand…that we be more involved." She smiles. It doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Claudia scoffs, and glares out the slatted windows behind Jane's somber, grey-suited figure. She can just barely see the hazy yellow light of the Shelby bulbs from the Warehouse floor. Up above, the skeletal brown metal girders stretch to the back of the structure, receding into the black shadow that perpetually hangs over the farthest corner of the Warehouse. It used to feel open—unending.

Now it feels too small. Too confining.

_This isn't happening._

"I'd love to continue to exchange witty barbs with you dear, but we have a bigger problem to deal with." Jane starts. Claudia ignores the Regent and continues to gaze out at the Warehouse. "You broke into the Warehouse. You attempted to steal a dangerous artifact…and you deliberately attacked Warehouse personnel in a violent manner—"

She jerks her attention back to Jane. She opens her mouth, ready to argue.

"She didn't _violently_ attack them, Jane." She surprised when she hears Artie's voice, and not her own. She looks at the older agent. Really looks at him.

He's aged considerably since she last saw him. He was always something of a recluse...opting to live at the Warehouse, spending all his waking hours in the Records Room or doing inventory or perusing the Ancient Archives. And while he always had a slightly…_off_ look about him, he never _truly_ looked the part of the socially-inept hermit. Not with Leena keeping an eye on him.

But now, his hair is wild, his beard untrimmed. His clothes are wrinkled and don't seem to fit right anymore—he's lost weight. His complexion is pale, the lines in his face deeper than she remembers. His glasses are bent—he probably broke them at some point, and just didn't bother to get them fixed.

_Your fault._ A part of her says.

She doesn't make a counter argument.

"I'd never _hurt_ Pete and Myka." she insists desperately. "It was just a Tesla grenade—you guys use Teslas all the time!" she glares the gun in Jane's hand. The Regent looks unimpressed. Claudia looks to Artie for support…hopefully, maybe naively. He momentarily makes eye contact. It's just a flash. Not even half a second, but she knows.

_He's on your_ _side_.

She doesn't have a clue as to why…she certainly hasn't done anything to deserve it.

_This is really happening._

Jane continues.

"Even if those charges were to be dropped, the remaining incidents would still be enough to have you bronzed."

"_What?"_ Both Artie and Claudia shout. Trailer, who's been hiding under the desk, sticks his head out and barks. Claudia can't speak for Artie or the dog, but she knows that she herself can't even…can't even _process_ the possibility…

_Trapped. Trapped for centuries, unmoving in bronze…_

It drove H.G. Wells insane.

And she's pretty sure she won't fare much better

"You…you can't be serious." She stammers, leaning forward in the desk chair, straining against Bat Masterson's handcuffs. "You…I thought you still needed a Caretaker! You can't bronze me!"

_Unable to see, to feel…only able to think. Trapped in your own mind._

The Regent sighs, and Claudia doesn't even bother to hide her relief when she says: "You're right." She slumps back in her chair and releases the breath she'd been holding. She hears Artie settle back into his own chair, and she's fairly certain she hears a relieved sigh come from his direction.

"The Regents are in agreement that no action be taken against your person that might in some way interfere with being the Warehouse Caretaker."

_Yeah…being encased in bronze might make it difficult._ She decides not to say it out loud. The snarky, bitter card she's been playing hasn't worked so far. And she'll admit it: she's afraid.

"They've also made it clear that you are not to be _forced_ into becoming the Warehouse Caretaker." Jane's fist clenches, her knuckles go white. "Physically forcing the bond might have negative effects."

Jane looks like she wants to continue…like there's something more to say. But she closes her mouth and looks away, glares at the floor. There's a sharp intake of breath from Artie, like he's just figured something out. It takes Claudia a second or two longer, but then it dawns on her.

"I can leave." The words fall out of her mouth, too good to be true.

"She can leave?" Artie sounds…sad?

"You can leave." Jane nods. Claudia blinks.

_This can't be happening._

As if she hears Claudia's thought, Jane stands and strides forward, effortlessly removing the handcuffs. Claudia shakes out her numb wrists, rubs some feeling back into them. She looks at Jane and swallows.

"Just like that?" She asks.

"Just like that." Jane confirms.

She still doesn't believe her, but she stands anyway. Eyes the door. Her plan's up in flames, and she won't have the metronome, but...

_Just go. It's the best offer you'll ever get. Find another way for Steve._

"Fine. I'm out of here," she declares, eager to leave behind Trailer's hurt look and Artie's disappointed frown and Jane's condescending gaze. She walks across the office as fast as she can manage without actually _running_, and has her hand halfway to the keypad—

"But,"

Her outstretched fingers curl into a fist.

_Stupid._

_"_If you leave, it would be my responsibility as a Regent to keep an eye on you. You're a prospective Caretaker, after all...and we already lost you once."

Claudia doesn't turn around. Her heart rate spikes. Her pulse pounds in her ears.

"Jane, what—? " Artie starts to ask. Jane cuts him off.

"And I might reason that it wouldn't be safe for you to continue on as you are: Alone, a danger to yourself and others. You did display some rather concerning behaviors today. And you have a history of mental illness…"

She feels cold. Very, very cold. She struggles to keep her voice from shaking.

"Joshua was alive. I _wasn't crazy—_!"

"I'd have no choice but to have you admitted again. For your own safety."

"No!" Artie cries…but she can't even really hear it. The pounding in her ears is too loud…and her breathing is ragged, shallow…noisy. What Jane is suggesting, what she's threatening to do…

She feels claustrophobic. Pinned down. She's cornered without any options. It's too much like that night at the B&B…

_Trapped._

Dimly, she hears Artie arguing with Jane…she's pretty sure Jane isn't even acknowledging his angry allegations. Her still-outstretched hand drops to her side. She unclenches her fist. Clenches it again. She tries to think, make a way out of this.

But her brain is stuck on a loop, unpleasant memories resurfacing.

_Can't go back there. Can't go back._ Over and over in her mind, she repeats it.

"Well, Claudia? Am I going to have to contact Dr. Mitchner?"

Somewhere in between the images of the psych ward, flashes of H.G. spring up. One conversation in particular:

"_I'd hoped that the Bronzer could act as my time machine,_"_ she said sadly. "I've already discussed this at length with Myka but…I'd hoped to awaken in a new world. A better one."_

"Well?" Jane's voice is firm, demanding. She wants an answer.

_Caretaker? Or the bronzer…_

_Which is the real trap?_

She doesn't know anymore. What she does know is that she doesn't have H.G.'s optimism.

She closes her eyes. Grits her teeth. Tells herself it won't be so bad…nothing can be as bad as a century encased in metal, right? Nothing can be as bad as Dr. Mitchner, right?

She turns, slowly makes her way back to the desk chair. Takes a seat, because she's pretty sure if she doesn't sit, she'll fall over. Trailer pads forward and rests his head on her thigh. Absently, she rubs his ears, but the action is slightly mechanical. Artie's hand on her shoulder barely registers.

"I'll stay." Her voice is hoarse. The words hurt.

"Excellent." Jane says. She sounds genuinely thankful. Gone is the all-powerful Regent act. Now that she's got what she wants, she's just plain old Jane again. "You made the right choice, Claudia. Really, it's for the best." She sounds so sincere about it…Claudia almost believes her. Almost. "I'll call Dr. Calder."

Jane pulls a Farnsworth from her pocket and heads towards the Records Room. The buzzing ring is clearly audible, even through the shut door.

_BRRRZZZZZZT. BRRRRZZZZZRRRTT._

_God, she still loves that sound, in spite of everything._

Artie's hand doesn't leave her shoulder. Hollowly, staring straight ahead, she mutters her question.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" She asks him. There's a rustle of fabric. He's shrugging. He states the answer plainly, like he's reciting one of his beloved history facts.

"I don't want another H.G. Wells on my hands."

xxxx

**I know, I know. OOC Jane is **_**evil!**_** But, here's my reasoning for that: Well, first off, Claudia kinda screwed stuff up for the Warehouse team. (Next chapter will reveal what REALLY HAPPENED!) She's probably had to deal with those repercussions and it's kind of embittered her against the girl. Also, look at what lengths Mrs. Frederic went to when she was angry with Sally. SCARY.**

**Does this mean that Jane is all evil, all the time? Heavens no! I love Jane Lattimer! She's awesome! She's just very cranky and manipulative here, trying to force Claudia to get with the program. (Which can be a difficult job, right?) ANYWAYS, enough of my rambling! If you felt I didn't do Jane justice, please feel free to let me know. Or maybe you liked evil!Jane. Either way, I appreciate the input! NEXT UP! Things unravel in 2011….**


	9. Chapter 8: Zapped

**A/N: **Hello! Thanks to all who read, reviewed, etc! And many thanks to my beta reader, IDreamOfDistantSeas, as she keeps spelling mistakes from happening. **Spoiler Warning: **Seasons 1-3 of Warehouse 13 are fair game!

**Disclaimer: I don't Warehouse 13. If I did, the Christmas episode would've made it on to the Season 2 DVD. **Seriously, that made me mad. Anyone else bothered by that?

**Chapter 8: Zapped **

_**Leena's Bed and Breakfast. October 19**__**th**__**, 2011**_

Leena didn't know a lot about her supposed 'abilities.' She liked to think she had a handle on them. She liked to pretend she wasn't frightened by the mysterious power she held. She worked hard to maintain the carefully constructed all-knowing exterior, even though she was just as mystified by her abilities as anyone else. 'Illusion of control' at its finest.

But she had enough actual control that when Dr. Calder's cool, calming presence breezed into the B&B, she could still feel that something was very, very wrong.

"I came as soon as I could manage…" Vanessa said as she stepped into the living room. Artie stared at her, wide eyed. His aura sparked with anxiety. Leena raised an eyebrow at him. Normally, whenever Dr. Calder entered the room, his aura was…well, still anxious, actually…but not like this. This was a frightened anxiety. She was proficient enough in her ability to detect the subtle difference.

Pete and Myka walked in. Two more auras to make Leena's head spin. Artie's was already causing her moderate discomfort.

"What…?" Pete asked, eyeing the green ribbon in Vanessa's grip. Vanessa glanced back and forth between Artie and the rest of the agents. She was still in the dark as to what had happened. Leena wasn't even sure she knew about Mrs. Frederic.

Leena took a deep breath and tried not to think about Mrs. F.

Artie was mirroring Vanessa with his back and forth motion, going between the doctor and Claudia. Leena winced as a pressure built behind her eyes. Claudia was…Claudia was _not well._

"Claudia…I was about to tell you. Mrs. Frederic is dead…and we need another Caretaker to take her place. We can't rebuild the Warehouse until we—" Artie rushed to say.

_Anxious. Concerned. Guilty. _Leena stepped back and leaned against the wall for support. Her head was throbbing. Too many strong emotions all at once. She closed her eyes. She told herself to continue to breathe evenly…the intensity would fade—

"No. _No."_

_"_Claudia—"

"_You promised."_

"Artie, what's going on?" Pete's voice cut through the rising hysteria.

"My question exactly," Vanessa added, her own voice tight with worry. "Where's Mrs. Frederic? You said—"

Leena stiffened. There was so much going on…Artie' guilt was suffocating; Pete and Myka's confusion was practically palpable, it was so overwhelming, and Vanessa's presence only made it worse. But that wasn't what was making her back go rigid, and the color drain from her face. While Artie struggled to explain to Vanessa what had happened, and Pete and Myka badgered him for answers, Leena turned her attention to the uncharacteristically-silent Claudia.

She had no idea what was going through her head; she wasn't a mind reader. But she could _feel_ what was going through her head.

_Fear,_ _loneliness, betrayal, claustrophobia, desperation…_ Leena began to panic slightly. She watched as Claudia's shoulders stiffened, and a determined look settling on her face. A frightening look…she'd seen it hours before when she'd 'dealt' with Marcus—

In an instant, Leena knew what she was going to do. Because Claudia had done it once before when everything unraveled and fell to pieces.

_She was going to_ _run._

Leena didn't even pause to think. She turned and sprinted down the hallway, all the while cursing herself for not getting rid of the metronome.

She skidded to a halt and burst into the dining room, already reaching for the small wooden device on the table. Her fingers brushed the cool, smooth surface.

"Don't." came a quite command.

Leena froze, the hair on her extended arm standing straight up. She knew without looking that Claudia's Tesla gun was fully charged, ready to fire.

"Claudia!" Artie yelled. "What—!"

Claudia didn't even acknowledge him.

"Just give it here," she told Leena, sounding calm enough, but the tears streaming down her face gave her away. "_Please."_

"Claudia, I can't. You know I can't." Leena tried to stay focused on the girl and the gun, but Pete and Myka's angry bickering was distracting her.

"Pete, do something!" Myka cried.

"I…I can't! She's…I can't!" Pete stammered, one hand poised over the only gun he had—the normal one.

"Artie, what the hell is going on here?"

"_Please."_ Claudia asked again through clenched teeth. "I just want to help Steve."

_She wants things to go back to the way they were._

"No." Leena said, surprised at her own firmness. "Just…put the Tesla down, Claudia. It'll be okay. We'll figure this out—" She took a step forward.

"_No!"_ Claudia shouted, flinching backwards, away from Leena. "We won't _figure this out._ Mrs. F is dead, and—" Her voice broke and she coughed out a small sob. "I can't!"

"Just—" she moved towards her.

"_Don't move!"_

Leena should've known better. She could feel the chaos coming off of Claudia's aura…she knew how close to the edge she was. But she still held out hope. Still wanted to help.

So she took a step forward.

_ZZZZAAPPPP!_

**xxxxxx**

The sound of the Tesla firing filled with dining room, the ghostly blue light burning their retinas and fading just as quickly as it had come. Leena fell to the floor with a muffled _thump_. The Tesla followed suit, landing with a noisier clatter as it skidded across the hardwood surface.

And then…silence.

It seemed to stretch for an eternity. No one moving, no one speaking. But then…

"I…I—" the apprentice's painful stutter acted like a hammer on glass. It shattered not only the silence, but also the shock that seemed to keep the agents in their places. Myka shouted at Pete, who lunged for Claudia.

"No!" Artie yelled, but Pete already had his arms wrapped tightly around her torso.

"Stay down!" he pleaded. She panicked and reacted without thinking; she elbowed him sharply in the stomach, adrenaline and frantic anxiety fueling her escape. Pete let go immediately, more out of surprise than anything else. The whole situation was just too surreal.

"Pete!" Myka yelled again. But Pete was standing rigid the dining room, clutching his stomach and looking like a kicked puppy. Claudia scrambled away, skirting the edge of the living room, headed for the door as fast as she could manage.

Myka darted in the opposite direction, towards the dining room. Artie followed her, his eyes glued to Leena. Myka stooped and grabbed the still-hot Tesla, spinning and shooting with practiced ease.

"Mykes—!" Pete's voice was thick with disappointment, but Myka wasn't entirely sure if it was directed at Claudia, or at her, as she currently had no problem shooting their young friend.

But then, Claudia hadn't had a problem shooting Leena.

The lamp in the living room sparked and exploded as the bolt from the Tesla made contact. Claudia recoiled from the blast, but aside from a few stray bits of glass scratching her arm, she was fine. Myka aimed again, but Claudia was already out the front door.

"The hell, Myka?" Pete demanded, still stooped over somewhat.

"She zapped Leena!"

"She was freaked out! You know what she's like when she's freaked!"

"I actually _don't_ know Pete, because I was under the assumption that she could handle this, and now look!" She threw her hands in the air and indicated the destruction around them. Pete didn't have anything to say to that.

"What is going _on?"_ Vanessa asked, slowly standing from her place behind the sofa. She brushed broken glass off her coat. "Where is Irene? You said she was—"

"She's gone," Artie spoke up. He was hunched by Leena's side, his face turned away from them. Vanessa blinked, and looked at the open front door.

"Then…?"

"Yes." Artie said with bitter mirth. "Our best bet at fixing the Warehouse just disappeared. Something, I might add, she's very, very _good at."_ The venom faded from his voice as he added, "And once again, I'm to blame."

"Artie…" Pete shook his head. "This isn't your fault."

"No, no. It is," he said, like he was correcting his grammar or something. "I shouldn't have lied to her. I should've told her…" his didn't finish. Or rather, he couldn't. There was a lump in his throat that was making it hard to speak.

"What _exactly_ should you have told her?" Myka asked.

Artie struggled to swallow, and once he was able to breathe again, he explained.

"You know about the watch."

"James' watch?" Vanessa interrupted. Artie shrugged helplessly. "This _is_ serious."

"Yeah, more than you know," Pete informed her, his sarcasm falling flat.

"Well, the watch would've repaired the Warehouse…it wouldn't have brought Mrs. Frederic back. So we'd need a new Caretaker."

"And you're saying that Claudia," Pete tried to wrap his brain around this. "_Claudia._ Our Claudia…nineteen year old kid who's still afraid of monsters…_she's_ the next Caretaker?"

"Artie, that's crazy," Myka ran a hand through her hair. "And it doesn't make sense. She's not an agent…she has no seniority—"

"That's not how it works." Artie waved his hand at her mistaken assumption. "It isn't a promotion. It's…more complicated." He looked to Vanessa for help. She exhaled as she took a seat on the piano bench.

"The Warehouse chooses it's Caretaker." She stated simply. "That's all I know."

Artie stared, trying to decide if she was telling the truth. In the end, his emotional exhaustion won out, and he was forced to take her word for it.

"So there you have it," he declared bleakly, sitting beside Vanessa. "We can't repair the Warehouse until Claudia comes back…and lord knows if that will ever happen." He abruptly stopped talking. The lump in his throat was back.

Pete squared his shoulders.

"It will." He had absolute faith in Claudia. Just like before…the thimble incident. "She'll come back. She's family, Artie."

It took a few seconds, but the three half-heartedly chorused their agreement, though their expressions said otherwise. Pete blinked, surprised to find himself alone in his assertion. He glanced at Myka. Surely she'd…?

She didn't look at him. She mumbled, "It was really her this time, Pete." _Not a disguise, not a ploy…_

He looked to the others as well, but he received the same response. Not knowing what else to do, he wandered away from the morose group. He didn't go back to the dining room…Mrs. F was there and the metronome and Leena and too many bad things…

He moped his way to the kitchen. But, for once in his life, he didn't have an appetite. He leaned against the Formica counter and tried to put his mind at ease. Quietly, to himself, he said:

"She'll come back. She has to come back." But a small, sad part of his mind knew better.

_She won't._

_xxx_

**Another chapter down! And they're gonna keep coming, because I'm determined to have this end happily. Anyways, feel free to review! I appreciate it. NEXT UP! in 2012, Claudia's on the run...**


	10. Chapter 9: Running on Empty

**A/N: **Well, hello yet again! Many thanks to readers, reviewers, folks who added this to their alerts, etc. You guys rock! And more thanks to my beta reader, IDreamofDistantSeas, who not only edited this chapter, but also provided the title. (I added a word. But she essentially named it.) Now then, moving on. NOTE: This chapter is LONG. I will ramble about that further at the end. **SPOILER WARNING: **Season 1-3 of Warehouse 13.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13. **If I did, Dwayne and Todd would not have happened. *Cough* Claudia/Fargo supporter *cough*

**Chapter 9: Running on Empty**

_**Somewhere in the continental U.S. February 6**__**th**__**, 2012…**_

The diner was virtually empty.

The vinyl booths were unoccupied. A single waitress wiped down the low counter, missing entire patches of crumbs and coffee spills. Deciding she was finished, in spite of the obvious food residue, she tossed the towel aside along with her apron and headed for the door. It clanged noisily, sounding much louder in the relative silence of the place.

"Hey, hey!" Some guy stuck his head out of the kitchen, glaring at the door. "Did Arlene just take off?"

"It doesn't matter, Bill," someone answered him. "It's not exactly busy out there. I think you can handle it."

"That's the third time this week," Bill growled back. He disappeared back into the kitchen. Loud banging of pots and pans followed, together with a few choice swear words. Several seconds later, Bill emerged once more, his rather unpleasant expression directed towards the lone customer seated at the counter.

"Hey, kid…you gonna order something? Cause otherwise, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave." He all but snarled.

Claudia raised an eyebrow. She glanced around the desolate eatery.

"Seriously? I don't see a ton of people clambering for a seat."

The guy's already-sour expression grew more so. He repeated the question, emphasizing the 'asking to leave' part.

She held up her hands, not really wanting to get into it with him. Or leave the diner, for that matter.

"Okay, okay…uh…" she glanced at the greasy menu on the counter. "Grilled cheese?"

"Can you pay?"

"Yeah," she answered, trying not to let her annoyance show; she was already on thin ice with him. He continued to give her a dubious look. "_Yes._ I can pay five ninety-five for a grilled cheese, alright?" She bit back the urge to add, _Not that it's worth that much…_

"Feh," he flapped a hand at her as he stalked off into the kitchen, the door swinging open and shut, open and shut, until it finally settled on shut.

She slumped forward, resting her forehead on her crossed arms. She sighed and slumped forward, her head resting on her crossed arms as she contemplated her next move.

It had been four months. Four awful months on the run, feeling guilty and wanting nothing more than to slink back to Univille, South Dakota, and beg for forgiveness.

But each time she imagined that scenario, it was interrupted by a blast from a Tesla gun, a green ribbon, and Artie's words: _"Everyone has a choice. And as I've discovered, people often make the wrong one."_

The words had been meant for Steve.

In the end, they suited her better.

She ran a hand through her hair, absently noting that it could probably do with a cut. It had long since grown out of its style, and now just looked perpetually messy. Not the salon-professional 'messy' look…just _messy_. It matched the rest of her appearance, though. From her threadbare jacket, to her worn, muddy boots, to her tired, weary eyes, she definitely looked like someone who'd been…'between homes.' She was starting to feel it, too. She was exhausted, irritable all the time, mildly paranoid, and she was pretty sure she'd lost weight. Not so great, considering she was kind of scrawny to begin with.

She sighed. Haircuts and food and jackets without holes in the elbow cost money.

_Need to take another job…_

It wasn't a pressing matter…she still had some cash from the last computer repair gig. That, and finding work was sometimes more trouble than it was worth. She needed to stay under the radar…and pesky things like a name and a bank account were needed for jobs. Things that could be tracked. Things that would tell them where she was. She'd been pretty careful thus far, only taking jobs willing to pay off the books, not leaving her name anywhere…she'd even tossed her phone and laptop. But…

She eyed her messenger bag. It sat, unsuspecting under the stool next to her on the grimy floor, looking a little worn. (Much like herself, actually.) But inside the innocuous messenger bag was her potential undoing.

Her Farnsworth.

She was pretty sure she'd taken care of it, as she'd all but fried its innards. It would probably never work right again. Not that it mattered; no one was going to call her. Not now. Not after what happened.

But she still wasn't entirely sure that it was safe to keep around. Artie, while something of a Luddite, would have no problem hooking up the signal trackers she'd fashioned during the B-Movie debacle in town. In theory, he could then boost the radius and pinpoint her relative location. It wouldn't pose much of a threat if she could just jam the signal…but Farnsworths, as Artie was fond of pointing out, couldn't be cracked, tapped, or _hacked._ The only person who'd ever managed to make the communication devices go on the fritz was H.G., and Claudia never got a chance to ask her how she did it.

_So many things I never got to ask…_

So yeah, it was possible that they were tracking her right now. It was too early to tell if the paranoia was just the old habit flaring up, or if it was actually founded on anything. But she'd rather be paranoid and keep the darn thing than ever get rid of it.

_"Worse case of identity theft…EVER."_

_"Alright…maybe this will help." He handed her the sleek, black metal case. She took it somewhat hesitantly._

_The metal was cold in her hands, and already she could see the smudge of her fingerprints on the pristine surface. As she opened it, she made a note to wipe them off later—_

_Her eyes widened._

_It was a Farnsworth._

_Well, of course it was a Farnsworth…she kind of figured that out right off the bat but…_

_The models that Pete and Myka carried were a flat, dull brown, the inner brass plate mostly designed for efficiency. This, though, was obviously crafted with a particular aesthetic in mind. Delicate copper wiring arced across the inside of the cover; etched designs in the face plate mirrored the wire work. The frequency dial was larger, the numbers clearly visible in bold white against the gleaming black._

_"Does this mean I'm an agent now?" she asked, grinning like crazy, but hardly caring._

_"No. It means I can reach you any time of day or night."_

_"Okay, not as good."_

_"Careful, it belonged to Philo." She didn't even hear what Pete and Myka said. She was too caught up in feeling…like she mattered. Like she was really a part of the team. After the scare with the thimble, she'd been sure they'd never trust her again…but then Artie showed up in Switzerland. And now he was giving her Philo's Farnsworth._

_"Artie," she said quietly, trying to find the right words to fully express how thankful she felt. For everything. Not just the Farnsworth…_

_"Eh, just…don't lose it." He issued it like an ultimatum. _

_"Okay," she agreed quickly, snapping it shut. She resolved to never let it out of her sight. Hastily, she added, "Uh, thanks. Thank you for…coming after me…" it was awkward and it wasn't what she wanted to tell him. It kind of was, but…it wasn't enough…_

_Artie made some incomprehensible noise and shrugged on his messenger bag. She made a snap decision and threw her arms around him. _

_There. That was better. That was what she wanted to say._

_He stiffened, a little surprised…but then his shoulders loosened just a bit before he grouched:_

_"Okay, okay, why is everyone hugging around here all the time? I still have a bump on my head." And she smiled, because he wouldn't be Artie if he didn't grouch like that._

_"Okay," she told him as he lumbered out of the room, still grumbling. She watched him go, then smirked at Pete. "Jealous?" she said, displaying the Farnsworth._

_"Not even close." He assured her._

_"You sure?" She teased._

_"Yeah."_

_"Really?"_

_"Let me see it."_

_"I don't think so."_

_"Just want to see it."_

_"You're gonna have to chase me…"_

She laughed, remembering the mess he'd made as they bounded through the B&B. The laughter faded, though, as she was reminded of her last night at Leena's. The way he'd looked at her…the way they'd _all_ looked at her…

"Hey, kid!" Bill's voice was loud and close. She jerked upright to find him scowling mere inches from her face. "Your grilled cheese."

She huffed angrily.

"Thanks," she said without sincerity as the guy shoved the plate in her direction. She stared at the greasy sandwich and thought for a moment. What day was it? Well, it was February. She knew that much. Was it the third yet? Or had the third already passed? "Not a kid anymore." She surmised. She'd turned 21 at some point over the last few days.

Yay.

She poked at the grilled cheese—honestly, she wasn't all that hungry. But if it got Uptight Bill to leave her alone for five minutes…

She bit into the sandwich and all but gagged on the tasteless, rubbery cheese. She must've made some kind of sound, because Bill glared daggers in her direction.

"Swallowed wrong." She even pounded on her chest a little, to make it look convincing. Bill didn't buy it, though. His lip curled in what looked to be disgust. She threw the look right back at him. He slunk to the far end of the counter, no doubt wishing there was someone else, _anyone else_, in the diner to attend to.

Unfortunately for the two of them, it was just her.

She forced herself to eat the pitiful excuse of a sandwich, shuddering at the slimy texture of the cheddar. She eventually finished, and reached for her water glass, only to discover that there wasn't one.

"Excuse me?" she spoke up, the thought of talking to Bill only slightly less nauseating than the cheese she'd just eaten. "Could I get some water?"

Bill looked at her like she'd just asked him for a kidney. He waited a full seven seconds before he casually walked over and slammed an empty glass down in front of her. He then retreated to his end of the counter once again. She glared at the empty glass.

"Think you forgot something, Bill," she told him. He jerked his head towards the back of the diner.

"There's a faucet in the bathroom." He said, shrugging. She glared at him.

"Dude, what is your _problem?_"

"My problem is a skinny redhead who's keeping me from going home early." He retorted. "You've been in here for the last…what, two hours?"

She blinked. She hadn't realized it had been that long. She was just…tired, and the prospect of spending another night in a dingy motel was…not pleasant.

"Sorry," she apologized, grabbing the glass and heading to bathroom. She really did feel bad, actually.

"Tch." Bill responded with an eye roll. Her frown returned.

Bill was still a jerk.

Once in the bathroom, she didn't bother to fill the glass. Instead, she washed her hands and splashed the cold water on her face. The cool liquid did little to help with the weariness. It ran down her face and splashed into the grubby porcelain sink. She watched it spiral down the drain; she didn't want to look in the mirror. She knew what she'd see, and she knew she wouldn't like it very much.

_You shot Leena. You saw how Pete looked at you…how they all looked at you…_

She leaned against the sink for a while. She didn't feel like going out to greet Bill the Chipper Waiter anytime soon…but then, she also didn't feel like chilling in the bathroom, either. She was pretty sure that was mold growing in the corner there….

Distantly, she could hear the front bell clang, the sound of the door banging shut shortly thereafter.

_Good. More customers. Someone else for Bill to charm._ She mused as she opened the door and made her way down the dim hallway towards the front of the diner. She turned and looked up, towards her seat—

And jumped backwards, her blood pressure skyrocketing.

_Pete and Myka were out there._

"Excuse me," Pete's voice was close. Far too close. _What were they doing here?_ But she knew. She could imagine Myka picking up her messenger bag, dumping the contents on the counter.

_The Farnsworth._

"Yeah?" Bill's tone was one of annoyed impatience.

"Have you seen this indivudal?"

_Crap. Crapcrapcrapcrap._ Her eyes darted around the hallway, back towards the bathroom. There had to be a way out. A way to escape. Somewhere to run…

"Her? Yeah. She's been bumming around here for the last couple hours." Bill answered. She closed her eyes. She was done for. "Is she in some kind of trouble?"

"…You could say that." Myka told him. The words sounded flat. Cold.

"Where is she?" Pete asked.

"Bathroom, I think."

"Thanks."

_Crap!_

She whirled and ran back towards the bathroom, well aware that she was risking being cornered. She could hear footsteps behind her.

She made it back to the single bathroom and slammed the door, throwing the lock, knowing it would only afford a few extra minutes…if that much.

_What are you doing?_ A part of her brain demanded. _You're acting like a common criminal_. Her eyes fell on the dusty window. She prayed it would open. It did, but it made a jarringly loud squeak. The footsteps too were loud. Rushed. Banging towards the locked door.

_They knew she was running._

She scrambled out the window and into the back alley. She took off running as soon as her boots made contact with the slick concrete, wet from a recent rain. They splashed through shallow puddles, kicking up dirty water onto her pant legs. She hardly paid any attention. She had to _run._

The unmistakable sound of a gun going off echoed against the brick buildings as she sprinted forward. Pete had shot the lock. Within half seconds, they were in the back alley, shouting and running towards her. She ran faster.

"Claudia!" Pete shouted.  
>She ran faster still.<p>

_This can't be happening…this can't be happening…_her thoughts matched the rhythm of her running feet. She risked a glance back.

_It is, it is, it is…_a mocking part of her brain informed her. The agent's pounding footsteps continued to advance. She was running as fast as she could go; she was at a flat out sprint. She couldn't keep up the breakneck pace forever. Already, her lungs were burning and the muscles in her legs were protesting. But she had to keep going.

The darkened city was unfamiliar. She had no idea where she could possibly go to hide or lose them or—

_Parking garage._ She almost ran past it. She made a sharp left turn and, much to her own amazement, cleared the low barrier. She didn't have much time to rejoice at the physical prowess she didn't know she had; Pete and Myka were gaining.

At this late hour, there were few cars in the garage. She ran up to the higher levels, glancing back and seeing no signs of the agents. Had she really lost them that easily? Had she—

"Do you see her?"

"No!"

_You didn't lose them,_ she would've laughed at her own stupidity, had she not been struggling to breathe. They'd taken the _stairs._

Their voices were distorted by the echo; she couldn't tell where they were or what level they were on. No knowing what else to do, she skidded to the nearest SUV and threw herself underneath, pulling her legs up to her chest and inching as far back into the shadow as was physically possible. Her sides burned and her breathing was so _loud_. She fought to slow it down, to calm her beating heart.

"She has to be here," Pete was saying. His voice wasn't echoing so much anymore. He was closer.

"I'll try the next level," Myka said.

"Does she know how to hotwire a car?" Pete asked. Myka didn't answer. Most likely because she didn't want to admit that she didn't know. Claudia silently replied to his question: _Yes._

From her uncomfortable position beneath the Highlander, Claudia could just barely see Pete's feet and ankles as he walked the length of the parking garage. His shadow was paler than it should've been—the yellow fluorescent lightning was being helped along by the purple glow of his Tesla. He wouldn't hesitate to shoot this time.

She held her breath as he passed. She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw hurt.

His shadow passed right by the Highlander.

But she didn't dare exhale.

He circled back, this time his shadow intermittently disappearing in between cars. He was obviously checking behind them… but would he think to look under them…?

He stopped in front of the Higlander. He was going to check. She could see it, in her mind's eye: him, leaning down, his face level with her own, the Tesla gun ready and aimed—

"Pete, anything?" Myka's call made Pete turn away from the car. Claudia allowed herself a small gulp of oxygen.

"No…I checked the cars. I don't see her." He sounded…like he was ready to give up.

"Keep looking," Myka ordered.

"C'mon, Mykes..." Pete argued.

"We need to find her, Pete. There are consequences—"

"Why are you being like this?"

"Why _aren't_ you being like this?" Myka demanded.

It was hard to keep her face impassive, when she so badly wanted to wince at the harsh words. That was _Myka_ talking. Myka, the woman she'd come to think of as a sister. And she was talking about her like…

_Like you shot one of their own._ The realization came from a deep, dark corner of her mind. She shuddered and tried to ignore the truth in the statement.

"Look at what she did, Pete. What she did to us. The Warehouse. Artie…"

_Artie._

She had to bite her tongue to keep from breaking down right there and then.

"She's not H.G., Mykes." Pete said softly. "This is different. It isn't happening again."

"We should've known. _I _should have known. We were the ones who investigated when she first broke into the Warehouse. We should've seen the signs, or—"

"Myka, did you hear me? This isn't the same thing. It's completely different. You're not at fault here."

"I know I'm not at fault!" Myka yelled. Both fell silent after that, Myka's denial still reverberating off cold metal and concrete."…Did you tell Artie?" Myka's voice no longer sounded strong. It was sad and detached…hoarse and failing to hide the fact that she was very close to tears.

"No," Pete said. "He's being difficult about all of this. He doesn't want to talk to her…"

Her stomach twisted like she'd been punched in the gut, and a twinge of pain jabbed her sharply in the chest.

_Artie didn't want to talk to her? _

She tried to imagine it. Tried to imagine Artie telling her: _No. I can't do it. I can't speak to you._ The very thought made tears sting her eyes. She could handle Myka's hated and Pete's disappointment. She _could not_ handle Artie's rejection.

"Look…let's just go back to the hotel. We'll tell Artie that the tracker was busted."

"He'll know we're lying," Myka pointed out. "Especially if we show up with that."

"Then we won't give it to him."

"We can't do that."

"…Yeah, I know." The agent's voice was thick with defeat. She heard the familiar sound of a metal hinge squeaking. Had she been able to, she would've cursed.

They had her Farnsworth.

Their shadows retreated from the front of the Highlander. Still, she did not move. She waited, not trusting herself to move just yet, as her mind was still plagued by the conversation she was quite obviously never meant to hear.

It was much later when she finally pulled herself out from under the car, her muscles griping at the movement and demonstrating their displeasure with stiffness and aches.

She stood, fully intending to leave the parking garage and try to scare up some cash so she wouldn't have to sleep on a sidewalk somewhere. She made it a total of five steps before she fell back to the ground. She didn't know what it was—perhaps it was seeing Pete and Myka that had triggered it. Maybe it was what they said, she wasn't entirely sure. But all at once, it felt _real._ She'd Telsa'd Leena, and she'd _ran._ She'd abandoned her responsibility—her 'destiny' as the next Caretaker—and the only family she'd ever known was charged with the task of bringing her in. She didn't feel twenty-one. She felt like she was much younger and very much alone.

She wanted to be angry. Anger was an easy emotion. But she'd brought this on herself.

She sat, hunched in the lonely parking garage, everything culminating into hot, frustrated tears. She had nothing left. No home, no family, no Farnsworth…

_God, she loved that thing._

She remembered when Steve had first started at the Warehouse, and the first time he'd seen Philo's Farnsworth.

"_Hey…why is yours different?" he asked. She blinked._

"_What?"_

"_Your Farnsworth. It's…not like mine," he held up his own plain-looking communicator. "Did you make that one, or something?" She titled her head to the side._

"_No," she answered him slowly. She was kind of flattered that he'd thought she'd built it. "I…well, there was this whole thing last year involving mistaken identity and basically, Artie gave me this Farnsworth after… everything happened." She purposefully was light on the details. She didn't really like sharing that particular story, about the time when she'd almost believed she'd betrayed her family and endangered the Warehouse._

_But Steve was a smart guy…and a guy who liked to spend time reading over case files to familiarize himself with his new line of work._

"_Ah…" Steve said it like her answer explained the mysteries of the universe, or something. She narrowed her eyes._

"_What?"_

"_Nothing. I just get it, is all." He used his 'all-knowing-Zen master' voice. "Artie gave it to you. And you two have a…thing."_

"_What? No we don't. You aren't making any sense."_

"_Well, you might not see it now, but you will." Steve informed her. At the time, she thought he was crazy, and she was still smarting at the fact that she'd been passed over for the promotion._

_But then, a week later, they got the case in Boston, and Steve was able to pull an 'I told you so!' when Artie had finally said aloud what the Farnsworth had only subtly suggested: _

_I'm proud of you._

Thinking of Steve just made everything worse. As if her life didn't suck enough already, she had to go and remember Steve. The horrible images she daily had to push aside once again flashed across her mind: Steve's cold, pale body seated unnaturally in the desk chair, his blue eyes wide and staring, but not really seeing anything…

Why? Why was this happening to _her?_ What had she done to deserve something like _this?_ And no one understood. No one understood the deep rooted pain she felt every time someone left. Every time she lost someone _yet again._ Shrinks, caseworkers, foster parents...they had clinical terms. They had neat and tidy diagnoses: _Emotionally closed off. Introvert behavioral tendencies. PTSD._

_Steve would've understood._

The delirious thought seemed to surface on its own. Steve had lost someone—he'd had a psych eval. He knew what it was like.

_He'd still be here if you'd just grabbed the metronome before you took off,_ she told herself angrily. _Then none of this would've had to happen. Everything would be okay._

The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. That, if Steve were still around, things wouldn't be so screwed up. That he was the only one who could possibly care anymore. Everyone at the Warehouse had given up on her.

A cold fist clenched her insides as she realized this: that her family no longer cared about her. That a dead man was now her only ally.

_You can still bring him back._

She sat on the cold ground, the beginnings of a plan taking shape. Maybe it was the emotional stress of the situation making her a little delirious, or maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the fact that it was close to one AM and she was stranded in a parking garage, having just avoided being arrested by the very people she'd loved and trusted…but she was she was seriously contemplating this. She was going to do it.

She was going to steal an artifact from the Warehouse.

xxx

**As I said, **_**LONG.**_** Well, longer than I'm used to, anyways. :D But I digress. This chapter was rather difficult to flesh out. It went through several rewrites before it reached this point and actually, there wasn't going to be a chapter of Claudia on the run. What do you think? Was it needed? Could I have done without? Tell me with a review! I appreciate any and all input. Maybe you liked it! Maybe you didn't! Let me know! ****Now…NEXT UP! In 2014, Artie rambles…**


	11. Chapter 10: Man With a Plan

**A/N: **Hello yet again! Here we are with the next chapter. Many, many thanks to readers, reviewers, people who faved, added this to alerts, and so on! :D Also, many thanks to my beta reader, IDreamOfDistantSeas. Now then! **Spoiler Warning: **For season 1-3 of Warehouse 13. ALSO! Random side note: A reviewer told me about a pretty awesome youtube vid for this fic. Whoever made it…you rock. Seriously, the vid is A-MAZIN'!

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13.** **If I did, Ted the Awesome Regent would still be around. **

**Chapter 10: Man With a Plan**

_**Undisclosed Location in the Badlands, 2014…**_

_"I don't want another H.G. Wells on my hands."_

She has to pause for a moment and think about that.

"…What? Artie, why—" His grip on her shoulder tightens, and she stops talking. She absently notices that the sound of Jane's muffled voice has paused in the next room.

Artie exhales once he hears the Regent continue. She glances up at him, her curiosity written all over her face. She wants to talk to him. Wants to ask a million questions, wants to rejoice over the fact that he's even speaking to her. But he keeps a firm grip on her slender shoulder, and his eyes trained on the Records Room door. His body language conveys his silent message: _Not now. Wait until she's gone._

Well that, or he's just ignoring her. But either way, she keeps quiet.

Jane's conversation with Vanessa continues for a few more minutes. The snap of a Farnsworth case signals the end of the conversation, and within moments she's rejoined them in the office.

"Dr. Calder should be here shortly." She states, straightening her suit jacket. She heads for the door and, to Artie, adds, "Until then, I'm placing her under surveillance. Just keep her here until the procedure is finished. Once that's done, we'll provide further instructions."

_Procedure._

The word makes her involuntarily shudder, as it dredges up cold memories of syringes and doctors and six months she'd rather not think about.

The older agent nods.

"Of course," he assures her. He puts on a pleasant enough smile as Jane punches in the code and exits the office. The sound of her heels rapping against the metal catwalk in the umbilicus momentarily fills the room before the door slowly shuts, locking into place.

_KER-THUNK._

Claudia opens her mouth, the question poised on her lips, but Artie holds up a hand.

_"Ssshhh!"_ Artie hisses, jumping from his chair and running to the desk. He reaches for the keyboard, his fingers clumsily making their way across the keys. Security camera images appear on the monitor.

"What…?"

"Just wait." He says with a kind of sagely tone. He taps the screen, indicating the camera trained on the barren patch of earth in front of the Warehouse. Two government vehicles sit like large black beetles on the dirt. It's a few more seconds before Jane's small grayscale image appears on the screen. "A little longer…" she climbs into the nearest vehicle. Soon enough, the SUV's are on their way, leaving behind nothing more than tire tracks and a lingering cloud of dust.

Artie visibly relaxes. The taught lines on his face slacken, his shoulders slump and a tired grin appears beneath his scraggly beard.

"Alright, _now_ we can talk." He tells her. "You were going to ask me something?" His eyes are bright, one of his impressive eyebrows raised in an almost…_amused_ expression. He's sitting on the desk, turned to face her, giving her his complete and undivided attention.

_What?_

"You…I don't…" she tries to put her confusion into words, but it isn't working. So instead she just stares at him, waiting for an explanation.

And then, something _really_ freaky happens.

Artie chuckles.

_He chuckles._

She's just broken into the Warehouse. She Tesla'd his agents. She attempted to steal an artifact. She was nearly arrested and charged with bronzing, and he _chuckles._

"Claudia…" he laughs warmly. She shakes her head. She's got to be imagining this. She's got to be…hallucinating, or something. Jane could've used an artifact, right? Like some weird artifact that makes you see things while in reality, you're unconscious and about to be bronzed… "…I've missed you."

And with that, her brain comes to a grinding halt.

_What?_

Before she can even _begin_ to process that, he's leaned forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. The once-familiar smell of his mud-colored jacket fills her senses, sending her backwards in time three years, to when everything was easier, and she used to hug him all the time, much to his obvious discomfort.

And how's that for a juxtaposition? Now he's the one hugging her, much to _her_ discomfort, which only further serves to short circuit her thought process.

And everything she's been keeping deep down inside…everything she's been through in the past three years, everything she's felt and feared and fought…it pushes past her carefully constructed barriers. The unhealed wound is opened yet again, aching and raw. But Artie's presence eases the pain somewhat. Makes it tolerable.

She doesn't care if this is some artifact-induced delusion, because it feels so good, being back, in spite of everything…because it feels good being back with _him._

_I've missed you too, Artie._

She cries silently into his shoulder, still trying to work through the frenzied thoughts and emotions. At some point, she hears herself mumble something into the rough fabric of his coat.

"I don't understand."

"Heh. No, I imagine you don't," Artie tells her. He leans back, his hands still on her shoulders as he looks at her. "Ever hear of a man by the name of Caturanga?"

"...What?"

"Back at Warehouse 12," he says, springing from the desk and hurrying to the Records Room. She stares after him.

_Yep…moment ruined._ She shakes her head and swipes at her eyes, wiping away the tears.

"He was H.G.'s mentor," he continues with the history lesson as he rummages through the sparse files. "And he was placed in charge of a pocket watch that…well, actually, that's beside the point." She listens as he spouts off a few more facts, not really following him at all. Something about a steampunk DVR?

"Anyways," he goes on, coming back to the desk with an armful of papers and books that look dangerously close to toppling from his grasp. "He virtually _disappeared_. No one knew what became of him, where he went…if he was even alive." He spreads out a few of the tightly rolled scrolls, the yellowed paper crisp and cracked slightly. "See, this is a kind of timeline of Warehouse agents, and you'll notice that Caturanga's date of initiation is given…but after that…nothing."

She glances at the form to humor him. She sees what he's talking about. Two dates are listed under the man's name. It looks like a date of birth, and then a later date, and then…just a dash.

"Wait a sec…Amelia Earhart worked for the Warehouse?" she asks, her eyes wandering across the document, her inate curiosity momentarily distracting her from the absurdity of what's going on. Her voice is still rough from crying. She clears her throat. Artie does the same.

"Ah…yes. A story for another day."

She slowly nods.

"So…this Caturanga guy…has something to do with…" she gestures to his lopsided smile. "Your confusing demeanor?"

"He has _everything_ to do with my confusing demeanor. He went missing in the early 1900's. Claudia, H.G. was bronzed at the turn of the century." He lets the words sink in. Her eyes widen.

"Oh…" she mutters quietly. "That's…" 'Sad' seems like an understatement, so she just lets her unfinished sentence hang.

"It was actually something Myka said…a while back," he tells her, a pained look briefly passing over his face, "that got me thinking. So I did some digging."

"And this relates to the current situation...how?" she asks him. It's a habit, redirecting his spastic thinking. She's surprised that it comes back so easily.

"I'm getting there," he assures her, reaching into the pile of papers. He withdraws an aged, leather bound book. There's something embossed on the cover, but the color has faded, leaving only the raised print. She squints at it. It looks like…a tower of some sort.

"I went through some of James' old things—"

"James?" she interrupts, not liking the turn of the conversation. "As in…James MacPherson?" he nods. "Artie…what…this is insane! What does this have to do with _anything_—?"

"He had Caturanga's journal," he rushes to explain before she can hurl further accusations at him. He hurriedly opens the book, shows her the aged pages within. "I went through it to get a more detailed account of the circumstances surrounding H.G.'s bronzing..." he fidgets, adjusting his glass so that they sit straighter on his nose. Of course, it's a useless gesture, as they are bent beyond repair. Really, it's more of a nervous tick.

"You…why…?" all this talk of H.G. and bronzing…she's starting to get a clearer picture.

"In 1899, H.G. lost her daughter," Artie reminds her. "We knew that, right?"

"Yeah…" she recalls the conversation vividly. The deep-seated regret in the much-older woman's voice…the razor sharp edge that it took on when she spoke of the men who'd murdered her only child…

"And she became…_obsessed_…with trying to find a way to bring her back." His words are pointed. The pieces finally fit together.

_Ah._

"Artie…" she starts to apologize, thinking that's what he wants her to do. But he goes on.

"And in the process, she hurt someone she was very close to. She came to regret that action, so much so that she felt she didn't have any options…she felt she couldn't go back…couldn't be redeemed…"

She stares at the ground. This is sounding uncomfortably familiar.

"So then she asked to be bronzed," she finishes for him, her voice just barely above a whisper. "She told me once that she wanted to use is as…a kind of time machine."

"Mmm," Artie hums. "You could compare it to…running away, couldn't you?"

"…Yeah." God…how did she go from being a 24 year old criminal to a 16 year old kid getting a lecture? For a man who had visibly balked when she used the words _father _and _figure_ together in a sentence to describe him, he was certainly playing the parental card quite masterfully.

He must see her dejected expression, because gently, he says, "Hey. That isn't…I'm not trying to condemn you, Claudia. I'm just using this to…explain what I've been doing over the past three years."

"I know what you've been doing over the past three years," the close call with Pete and Myka comes to mind. "You've been after me…trying to bring me in."

"What?'" he sounds surprised. "No, no…I haven't been _after you._ I've been trying to keep you _away_ from here."

"…You…you…" her brow furrows as she goes over his last statement. "Keep me away?"

"Kiddo," he laughs, "you're good at staying off the grid, but not _that _good. I can think of multiple instances when the Regents almost had you. That's why I was so upset earlier…you basically ruined my plan."

"Surprisingly, this isn't making me feel any better," she slumps forward and rubs her temples, feeling a massive migraine building at the back of her head. "Not to mention, it's confusing as hell."

"It's like I said. I've spent the last three years keeping the Regents off your trail."

"But…but Pete and Myka—"

"Pete and Myka were working under Jane at the time. I had nothing to do with that assignment. The Regents…well, no. Just Jane mainly. We were still…not talking." Artie's signature growl rears up as he mentions Jane. Something clicks in Claudia's mind.

"_He's being difficult about the whole thing. He doesn't want to talk to her…"_ Pete's statement has been etched deep in her memory, helping to push her plan forward. Helping her to feel little remorse over what she was doing. But…if what Artie's telling her is true, then…

Some of the pain she's been carrying around for the last few years dissipates. She breathes deeply in and out, fighting off fresh tears.

_He wasn't talking to__** Jane**__._

The entire time…he was angry at Jane. Not her. In fact, he was helping her. Trying to keep her away from their plan…

"H.G. spent her time in the bronzer…becoming bitter. Resentful. I didn't want you to turn out the same way if you were forced into being the Caretaker. I made you a promise. I said you'd live the life _you_ want. I meant it…even if at the time I couldn't really…back it up." He admits with a small, self-depreciating laugh.

She doesn't care that he couldn't really back it up. She feels…better than she's felt in a long, long time.

"Which is why I'm going to make a deal with you." He whips out a small black remote…not unlike an automatic car key. He clicks it, and it beeps noisily.

"What was that?" she asks. She'd expected the door to open, quite honestly. But the door stays closed and locked.

"That was a miniature EM pulse."

"Really?" she asks, incredulous. Artie's not really…technologically inclined. "You just set off an EM pulse? Without anyone's help?" she allows the smallest hint of sarcasm to sneak into her question.

"Oh, ha," Artie returns the sarcasm, much to her relief. "I've had to learn a few things in your absence. I can almost download a song on iTunes."

"Impressive."

"Alright, enough banter, we only have five minutes with the cameras offline."

Oh, that's right…she's still in trouble. This isn't the time for joking around, as much as she wishes it was. She straightens, serious once again.

"Do you want to be the Caretaker?" he asks her, point blank.

"…"

"Do you want to be the Caretaker?" he repeats. She shakes her head solemnly.

"No."

"Alright. That settles that." He heads for the door. Punches in the code, and it swings wide open. "Go on. You can use the El Camino…I don't know how far it will get you… it's ben running rough lately. Maybe to the state line? A good head start, at least."

She stands and tilts her head to the side.

"This…is the deal?" she asks. He shakes his head.

"I'm getting to that. I have a few…acquaintances that can help with fake ID's. Back from my 'soviet spy' days. Their contact information is in the glove box, along with a disposable phone. You're going to call them first, and once you have the fake papers, you're going to call me, to let me know. I can keep the Regents off track until then. After that, though…no promises." He snaps, like he's just remembered something…and apparently he has. "Oh! Yes…I'll continue to keep Joshua updated, of course. The Regents…well, they did their best to keep him in the dark, but I managed to send a few encrypted emails and—"

"Artie…this is…" Just like when he offered her the Farnsworth, she's having a hard time articulating just how grateful she is. She doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve this second chance, she doesn't deserve his help.

"Now comes the 'deal' part." He tells her, a firmness to his words. She nods eagerly. She'll do whatever he asks. Anything. "You have to make a quick stop before you go."

"Where?" He grins.

"The B&B."

Her eyes widen as she realizes what he's asking her to do.

"Oh…Artie, I can't. I really…no, that's too—"

"That's the deal." He shrugs. "Really, Claudia…I think you're not giving them enough credit."

"Artie…I heard the way Pete and Myka…"

_The cold parking garage…Myka's even colder voice when she talked about what she'd done…_

"That was a long time ago." Artie tells her, trying to be reassuring. She disagrees with his optimism, shaking her head.

"I used a Tesla grenade on them three hours ago. They won't want anything to do with me."

"I know them pretty well, Claudia. And I know you pretty well. If you're honest with them…if you explain why you did what you did…I'm not saying they'll be okay with it. I'm saying that they might have a better understanding of what you've been through."

She eyes him dubiously. _Has he lost his mind?_ Maybe he has. After all, he's not only letting her go…he's telling her that everyone is just going to get over the fact that she screwed them over three years ago.

"Like I said, that's the deal." Artie says again.

She looks to the open door…the possibility of freedom. Of having a choice about her life. Then she looks back at the inside of the office, the Tesla grenade incident replaying in her head.

"This might help you make a decision," Artie says after some time passes, and she still hasn't made up her mind. He goes to the desk, opens a drawer. He reaches into his pocket and removes a rumpled set of purple gloves before he withdraws the item from the drawer. When he does, she inhales sharply.

_The metronome._

"Artie," she looks at him, her gaze questioning. Is he being serious? Is he really handing over the artifact? Talk about dangling a carrot. If this isn't real…

"I've had a while to think about this," he informs her as he hands over the device, carefully making sure the glove is placed between her skin and the artifact. "I'm…pretty sure this is the best thing to do. You know…all things considered."

"I…well, _I_ feel that way…but…"

"As I said, I've had a while to think about it." He cuts her off. "Take it…but only if you go to the B&B first."

She stares at him a moment longer. She should be able to make the decision easily enough…but…

_Idiot. This is what you've been after for the last three years. Just do it._

Well, there's no arguing with logic like that.

She accepts the metronome, managing to wrap most of it in the purple glove. Artie smiles at her.

"You're doing the right thing, kiddo." He hands her the keys to the El Camino. She accepts those as well, turning to head down the stairs and out to the umbilicus.

"Aren't…" she starts to say. She pauses, wondering if she should continue. _You're just defeating yourself._ But she wants to be straight with him. He deserves that much, right? "Aren't you worried I'll just…run? Without going to see them?"

Artie puts on that all knowing smirk. It quirks up beneath his beard, and when he speaks, it's out of the side of his mouth.

"You won't." he says with utmost confidence. She wants to ask him "_What makes you so sure?_" But the door swings shut. She's left standing in the pale light of the umbilicus, marveling at what's just happened.

She looks down at the car keys and the metronome, contemplating making a break for it. But after all of that…Artie's faith in her…his keeping her safe all this time…

_Aren't you afraid I'll run?_

_You won't._

She shakes her head, because once again, Artie is absolutely right.

She's done running.

_xxxxx_

**Another chapter down! We're getting close to the end, here…ANYWAYS, a few things: I got some info on that awesome vid, if folks are interested. It's really just a very nicely edited video, as are the others done by oahfoah (YouTube user name…I hope I spelled that correctly.) The vid name is 'Claudia-Alone.' Seriously though, connection to this story aside, it's just really nicely done. Definitely worth a watch! And again, whoever made it, THANK YOU! **

**Now, about the chapter…my beta reader brought out a good point. Where is Joshua? Well, Joshua is still at CERN. Claudia was unable to contact him, as doing so would make it possible to track her. In the meantime, the Regents had been sending fabricated updates from 'Claudia' to keep him from getting suspicious. But, as mentioned briefly by Artie, he sent a few key messages to keep Joshua informed and reassured. I'm mentioning this here because it's a reasonable question to ask, but alas! I don't know where to put it in the story. And really, it isn't crucial to the overall plot, but some folks might want to know. :D ANYWAYS hopefully folks enjoyed the chapter! Even if you didn't, let me know! Reviews are always appreciated. Seriously, they help a lot….NEXT UP! Claudia faces Pete, Myka, and Leena…**


	12. Chapter 11: Where is my Mind?

**A/N: **Greetings! Here we are at chapter 11…a chapter wherein there is much talking. Much, MUCH talking. So, prepare yourself for that. ALSO! Thanks to folks who read, reviewed, faved, added this to alerts, and so on and so forth! I'm really glad that people are still enjoying this. Now then, time for the perfunctory **Spoiler Warning** for season 1-3 of Warehouse 13.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13. If I did, Myka would still have curly hair. **(Really though, she looks great with either style.) There will probably be spelling mistakes, as I wrote this quite last minute and didn't have a chance to get it to my awesome beta reader, IDreamOfDistantSeas. Apologies in advance!

**Chapter 11: Where is my Mind?**

_**Leena's Bed and Breakfast, 2014**_

She doesn't know how long she sits in the ancient El Camino, the engine idling softly, gazing out across the street at the ivy-covered façade of Leena's Bed and Breakfast. It must be a while, because she absently notes the lengthening of the shadows on the trimmed front lawn, and the harsh afternoon sunlight fades to the pale orange glow of early evening.

_Just go in. Get it over with._ She keeps urging herself. Her hand's been hovering over the door handle for as long as she's been sitting in the car. _It might not be so bad. Look what happened with Artie._ And for a moment she's tempted to believe that it will all work out. That they'll welcome her back with open arms.

The reality check comes in the form of a momentary flash of memory. Myka's less-than-pleased expression, lit by the pulsing energy of the Tesla rifle.

_God, Artie…you're going to get me killed._ She slouches against the steering wheel. _They'll shoot me on sight._

She's ready to give up on this whole doomed endeavor, but she catches movement out of the corner of her eye. She cautiously glances back to the B&B. _No, oh no…_

Leena's at the window. Looking out.

Looking right at her.

_Damn._ They know she's here. She can't take off without them potentially following. But she thinks back to the conversation with Artie, remembers her resolve to quit running.

She gets out of the car.

The walk from the dusty El Camino to the front porch is one of the longest she's ever had to take. Her shoes crunch on the gravel far too loudly, due to the desolate silence of the barren South Dakota countryside. Every fiber of her being wants to sprint in the opposite direction, but she keeps repeating Artie's words.

_You won't._

She reaches the door. She raises her hand, gives a soft, halfhearted knock. Her fist makes a dull _thump_ noise on the frosted glass panel.

She fidgets, trying to think of things to say.

_Oh, hey! Sorry about the Tesla grenade earlier. My bad, total JK guys._ She groans. This is going to go badl—

She can hear muffled footsteps approaching the door. She's seized with a sudden panic as she realizes what she's done.

_Please let it be Pete,_ she begs, even though she knows it's probably Leena. After all, she's the one who noticed her outside in the car. She continues to beg for Pete, though. She thinks he's the safest. The least likely to strangle her.

The door creaks open, and any hope Claudia might have had regarding surviving this little 'visit' vanishes as Myka stares at her, wearing an expression of mild shock.

_Say something!_ Her brain scrambles to find something to tell the older woman. A way to apologize.

"I—"

Myka's hand is on her gun, and she has the weapon drawn before Claudia can even _blink_.

"Hands!" she barks. Claudia immediately complies.

"Myka, I—"

_That's not a Tesla. That's the real thing._ She doesn't smirk at the barrel of this gun. Cold comprehension makes her throat constrict. She can't take her eyes off the gleaming black metal.

"Myka!" Pete's voice sounds from the end of the hall. Myka doesn't turn. She keeps her narrowed eyes—and her gun—trained on Claudia. "Myka! Don't! It's okay…"

The other agent comes charging to the front door, a little breathless from his mad dash through the B&B. He places a hand on Myka's rigid shoulder. "Artie just called. He said…he told me that she was coming. It's…okay."

"What?" both she and Myka ask…though Myka's voice is a pitch higher, as she obviously wasn't expecting _that,_ of all things.

"So let's not…wave that around." He nods to the gun. "Let's hear what she has to say."

_Oh, thank you Pete. Thank you, thank you, tha—_

_"_Then you can decide if you still want to shoot her." It's a joke. A very bad joke, delivered without any humor. It makes her cringe inwardly, and Pete must know it, because he gives her a gloomy, defeated look. _Hey, sorry, that's how it is._ He even offers a small, helpless shrug. She returns the defeated look. After all, if anyone should be feeling defeated, it's her.

Myka reluctantly holsters the gun. She keeps looking to Pete, the silent question never leaving her lips, but of course he knows what it is. Even Claudia can tell. _Is she really here? After everything? After the Tesla grenade earlier?_ He nods a little, mutters, "Come on," and leads his partner back into the B&B.

They don't invite her in. Neither look back at her, nor do they acknowledge that she's still on the porch.

She stands there, conflicted. _Do I follow them? Stay out here? What—?_

Pete yells over his shoulder.

"Come on."

She scrambles inside.

It's funny how three years can seem like a lifetime to a person…but to a building, three years just means a fresh coat of paint. Rearranged furniture. Different pictures on the walls. She notices that they never did replace that lamp…the one that was ruined the night that she—

_Stop. You're not making this any easier._

She shuts the door softly behind her, and slowly makes her way to the dining room. She assumes that's where they'll be…

She swallows audibly. She was wrong…the walk from the car to the front porch was _nothing_ compared to this.

She turns the corner at the end of the hall and hesitantly enters the dining room. She suddenly wishes they'd held this little 'reunion' someplace else, because images from the last night she spent here are making it _very hard_ for her to think straight, let alone come up with an explanation for the three people seated at the table.

She's expecting the glare from Myka, the pitiful looks from Pete. What she's not prepared for is the particularly blank expression from the innkeeper in the chair beside the two agents.

Leena regards her with a kind of…impassive frown. It isn't…angry necessarily. But then, there's a guarded quality to it. She notices that Leena's eyes are following her every movement. Her reluctant shuffling at the door. Her approaching the table. Her shoving her hands in her pockets so that they won't see them shake. Leena's gaze never leaves her.

"So…uh…." Pete addresses everyone in the room. He coughs self-consciously. "Like I said…Artie called. Okayed her to be here." Pete's the exact opposite of Leena. His eyes are avoiding her. "He didn't say much else."

"That's it?" Myka's voice carries the unmistakable air of disbelief. Pete spreads his hands.

"I…yeah. That's all he gave me."

"But…what are we supposed to do with her?"

"I don't know."

They talk about her like she's not in the room. She endures it, though. _You kind of deserve it._

Realizing that Pete is just as confused as she is, Myka turns to her, expectant and hostile.

"Well?"

_Oh, God. _She has no idea what to say to them. Somehow, 'sorry' seems insulting.

"I…" she really doesn't know where to begin. She exhales, inhales, tells herself to keep breathing. She can't look at Myka…it hurts to look at Myka. Pete is still not making eye contact, and she's too ashamed to glance in Leena's direction.

She picks a spot on the wall behind them.

_What do I tell them? What do I tell them?_ Myka, irritated, repeats her question.

"Well? We're waiting."

Claudia blinks. The phrasing…it's…familiar.

_"Well, Claudia?" Dr. Mitchner's condescension is as overpowering as his nasty cologne. "We're waiting._"_ She hates how he uses 'we' when he really means 'I.' Like they're somehow on the same page, or something. _

_They aren't._

_"Are you going to admit that you have a problem?" he asks her, still condescending. "Admitting that something is wrong is the first step to recovery, Claudia. Come on, now. You owe it to yourself to be honest. Joshua's not __**really**__ visiting you, is he? He's not __**really**__ alive, is he?"_

_"He's…"_

She blinks. She knows where to start.

"I…I was wrong."

The three look unimpressed. As they should be. It's not the best opening statement...but she goes on. "I was wrong to…do what I did. It was…stupid. Incredibly stupid." There's a ghost of a smile from Pete. But then, he's always been the easiest to win over. "Stupid, selfish, dangerous. I…I get that. And I acknowledge it, and I understand that my apologizing probably won't…won't mean much…"

She's surprised. The words are coming quickly. The sentences are falling into place.

"I screwed up. But Artie…we kind of talked a little. He said…that maybe, if I explained…it would make it, ah…" she falters. "Never mind. That's not important. What's important, I guess…is why I ran in the first place."

"We know why you ran, Claud." She's a little startled to hear Pete speak directly to her. She's also startled by the tone of his voice. It's soft, sympathetic. "You didn't want to be Caretaker. But that doesn't—"

"I know." She hurries to cut him off before he can go any further. "I know it doesn't justify what I did. But that's not…that isn't the full reason of why I ran." She takes a deep breath.

_"I don't understand."_

_"They aren't working." She insists._

_"That's simply not possible, Claudia…" Dr. Mitchner folds his hands on his desk and gazes at her over his glasses. She squirms in the seat across from the desk, twitching. She's not sure if it's because she's reacting to him…or the meds. "This is the fourth prescription we've tried. The tenth dosage modification. It should be taking __**some**__ effect."_

_"It isn't…" she runs a hand through her hair nervously and continues to twitch. Yep, the meds. "The dreams are…they're worse. I…I don't know what's what, anymore." She wants to say more. Wants to tell him that she's having a hard time remembering what day it is. Having a hard time distinguishing reality. She can't sleep, she's always anxious…and the twitching is starting to concern her._

_"Hmmm…that is a problem." Dr. Mitchner surmises. "I suppose we could up the dosage once more…" _

_She fights the urge to shake her head, even though she wants to scream NO! and toss out the pills altogether. Because as much as she hates the guessing game and the side effects and the countless nights of hoping, praying that they'll work, she hates not trusting her own mind even more._

"You guys were in Egypt. You didn't see Mrs. Frederic get worse." Myka sits up a little straight, as does Pete, at the mention of the long-ago case. "I mean, you saw what it was like at the beginning. The rambling and everything. Well it just kept getting more and more intense. The Warehouse was messing with her brain." The words are getting a little harder now. She's never talked about this with anyone. Never told anyone about it…"I…you guys knew about the…mental institution. But I never said…"

She has to stop. She has to pause, and make sure she can go on. She hates talking about her time spent at Mellinger's. Even Artie doesn't know the full account of what went on. At least not from her. It's probably all in her file.

"It's okay, Claudia." Again, Pete's encouragement catches her off guard. She's so grateful he's here—she's not sure she'd be able to get through this if it was just Myka and Leena.

She risks a glance at Leena. The tan-skinned woman still has that unyielding gaze. Briefly, their eyes meet. Claudia quickly looks away.

"Your….file…." If Pete's contributions to this 'heart to heart' surprised her, she's veritably _floored_ when Myka starts talking. "Said you were diagnosed with schizophrenia."

"Yes." She tries to swallow. She can't. "I was."

"And you…." Myka's always liked puzzles. It really isn't all that shocking when her eyes widen and her snarl slips away as she figures it out. Puts it all together. "You believed them. For a while."

_"I just want them to stop!" she yells. She's got a headache, and yet another bloody nose. Dr. Mitchner just glares._

_"Obviously, you don't want to get better, Claudia. Otherwise, these procedures would work."_

_"No! I…I just told you, I don't want to keep seeing him!" She pulls her knees to her chest, grits her teeth. "I just want my mind back!"_

"…Yeah. I did," she breathes. "But even though it was a misdiagnosis, Joshua was still invading my brain space. That didn't end until you guys…uh…" she pauses briefly. "Stepped in and figured out what went wrong." She realizes she's never thanked them for that. She'll have to do it later, when she's not taking a painful trip down memory lane. "When I saw Mrs. F…rambling and fighting for control over her own brainwaves…it freaked me out. Reminded me of…that stuff from Mellinger's."

_"Are you in pain?"_

_"Yesss," Mrs. F. hisses. She grips the metal arm of the chair and __**bends it back **__as her body quakes with unnatural tremors. Dr. Calder glances at the device on the table nearby. _

_"Claudia," she says, "It's time."_

_"But…" she tries to find a way out. A way to maintain control over her life…and her own grey matter. "Won't the Warehouse just shred my brain too?"_

_"No," they both say too hastily. "Dr. Calder…can take precautions." Mrs. F. explains, but her face crumples as another wave hits her. Claudia stares, horrified, at the Caretaker. All she can think is: not me. Anyone but me._

The words are getting _really_ hard now.

She's never told anyone this stuff before….

She's not even sure if she's admitted it to herself.

"So…" she starts. Her voice cracks a little. "That night. Dr. Calder came back with that green ribbon and I just…" she wheezes a little on the last part. Her eyes are burning. She knows she's dangerously close to tears. Yet again. "I'd lost Steve. We'd lost the Warehouse and H.G. And I was—I thought I was going to lose my mind, too." She just barely whispering by the time she comes to an end. Thinking she should probably sum up, she coughs out, "That's why I...ran. And I…I'm sorry."

_There._ She thinks. _You've done what Artie asked. You can go now. That was the deal._ But her feet don't move. _Idiot…what are you waiting for?_

She's waiting for _them._ She's waiting to see if they'll…forgive and forget. Or maybe just forget.

Agonizing minutes pass, and no one says anything. She keeps her hands in the pockets of her jeans, tells herself to give it a little longer. Just a few seconds more…just until one of them says _anything_—

The sound of chair legs scraping against the hardwood floor prompts her to look up from her shoes. She's half expecting it to be Myka, ready to shout _'get out,'_ or something.

But it's Leena. She stands and holds her arms rigidly at her sides. Claudia feels the color drain from her face. _What's she going to do?_

The woman strides forward. Claudia braces herself for…well, for something. She's not really sure what.

"I…know what it's like. To…not trust your own mind." Leena confesses quietly. "And I knew…I could sense what you felt, that night."

Claudia's never put much stock in Leena's whole 'aura' thing. Sure, she can believe that her brother was sent to an interdimensional space by a compass, and that Pete has a spider-sense. But she's always found it hard to accept that the proprietor of the B&B can 'read' people based on 'auras.'

Now, though, she's wondering if maybe that was a mistake. Because actually, Leena's probably the only one who can relate…the only one who knows what it feels like to have someone encroach upon your thoughts.

Impulsively, she steps forward and hugs Leena. Because, hey, it worked earlier for her and Artie, right? Maybe it can work here, too.

Leena starts, a little stunned. But soon, she's returning the hug, and another pair of arms envelopes them both.

Pete.

"We never gave up on you," he mutters into her hair. "Artie and me."

God. More tears.

She tries, unsuccessfully, to slither out of the group hug, as she's feeling a little overwhelmed. This was _not_ how she imagined this day going. In fact, it's probably the farthest thing from what she expected. And it's making her head swim a little.

Leena gets it. She backs off and smiles. Pete, though, is not finished. He intercepts her attempted escape.

"Nope!" he declares as he pulls her into a tighter hug. He grins, his face a little wet. _He's crying?_ "Three years without someone to watch a decent Raymond St. James movie with. You totally _owe me!_" He laughs, and she can't help it: she joins in. Because _man,_ she's missed this more than she realized.

He finishes his monster hug, and her feet make contact with the floor once more. The laughter fades, and she's forced to address the other agent.

Myka stands, arms crossed over her chest, regarding her with a dark, closed off look. She's once again made to acknowledge the fact that redemption isn't so simple. Pete and Leena and Artie…they made it easy. And maybe they forgave her too soon. Myka, though…Myka keeps her in her place. Myka serves as the reminder. The reminder that she ran. That she committed crimes. That, for a period of time, she turned her back on all of this.

"I can't…not yet. Not after…" Myka says. Claudia nods.

"Fair enough." she agrees, even though it pains her to say it.

For a moment, it looks like Myka might add something, but instead she frowns and stalks off, the sound of her footsteps diminishing as she climbs the stairs, her departure ultimately ending in the slamming of her bedroom door.

"She's…she took it hard, is all." Pete tries to explain. "We all did. But you know…what with H.G…"

"Yeah, I know."

She sighs. She can feel the pressing sadness returning…eclipsing the small moment of happiness she'd enjoyed just now…but Pete claps her on the shoulder, brightening her mood considerably. _Thank God for his short attention span._

"So! What's the plan?" he asks. "You're sticking around, right? I mean, not as the Care—I just mean, as an agent again. Right?" he sounds hopeful.

_No. I'm not._ That was the plan. That was the deal. She was going to stop off, say her piece, and get out.

But that was before Leena and Pete had been so forgiving. Had been so willing to take her back, in spite of everything.

"I…I'm not sure," she mutters. Pete tries not to let his sadness show. It doesn't really work. "I mean…I don't think I've been reinstated. I don't think I'll _ever_ be reinstated." she lies. That might be a stupid thing to do, considering his _mom_ is the Regent in charge of making sure she sticks around to become the next Caretaker. "And there was something I needed to finish…"

"Well, okay," he concedes, and he's quite obviously not happy about it. "But Claud…you know you're welcome here, right? Even if…even if you aren't reinstated. You're family. This is your _home."_

Tears. Yet again. _He is making this so difficult._

"I know, Pete." she assures him. At least, she knows now, anyway.

"You sure you have to go?"

_No. I'm not sure. Not anymore._ It is so tempting. To be back…to wake up every morning and eat breakfast with them, to joke with Pete, to do inventory with Leena, to nag Artie about eating right, to maybe…someday have Myka's trust again…

_You made a promise to Steve._

That's right. Without Steve, they aren't…complete. They aren't a whole family. That…and there's the threat of becoming Caretaker.

She needs to go.

"Yeah," she tells him. He sighs.

"I figured. Well…good luck, I guess." He gives her shoulder a friendly squeeze. "With whatever it is you have to finish up."

"Thanks."

"Walk you to the door?" he offers. She raises an eyebrow and looks over her shoulder.

"It's like…twenty steps. Tops."

"I'll take that as a yes." So they walk down the hall and to the front door together. She counts…she was off by ten steps or so.

"Aw, geez…what's that old monster doing here?" he asks as he pokes his head out the front door. She stiffens…was he not supposed to see the El Camino? Does that compromise the plan, or…?

"Uh…Artie had me drive it over." She tells him. Pete nods.

"That makes sense. You know…Artie hasn't touched it since you left."

"Really?"

"…Yeah."

"That would explain why it's running so rough," she jokes, because otherwise she'll just dissolve into more sappy tears. And she's had enough of that to last her a lifetime. Pete laughs.

"Well…may the force be with you." He says solemnly.

"Thanks, Qui-Gon."

"Does that make you Obi-Wan?" Pete asks.

"Maybe." She jokes. He shakes his head.

"Oh, no. If anyone gets to be Obi-Wan, it's me. You can be…" he's about to say 'Anankin,' but his brain works its way through the _Star Wars_ saga, and he thinks better of it. "You know what? Yeah. You be Obi-Wan." It's better than the alternative.

He gives her one last, quick hug. It ends far too quickly, in her opinion, and when they break apart, she's left with a dull ache in her chest that's threatening to become a lump in her throat.

She leaves the warm comfort of the B&B and heads to the car. He walks out to the end of the driveway as she starts up the engine and pulls out.

He holds up a hand.

She rolls down the window and returns the wave, keeping her eyes on the rearview mirror as his frame gets small, and smaller…until inevitably, it disappears.

She glances at the passenger seat. The metronome rests on the cracked leather. She draws in a shaky breath.

_Time to make good on your promise._

_**xxxx**_

**Just a little clarification…yes. I'm tweaking a few things…Claudia wasn't **_**actually**_** diagnosed with schizophrenia. I checked the file they show onscreen during season 1, episode 4 'Claudia.' It says that she displayed OCD tendencies and schizophrenic behavior, but they didn't diagnose her with anything. The conversation between Mrs. F, Vanessa, and Claudia was done from memory…so there's probably a few mistakes there. A little random side note for those who are curious. :D **

**But anyways…yep! Another chapter in the bag! Did it live up to expectations? Did it crash and burn? Let me know with a review! I appreciate 'em. NEXT UP! Will Jinks be resurrected…?**


	13. Chapter 12: Realization

**A/N: **Hello folks! Sorry for the delayed update…this chapter was _killer._ Not killer in the good way. Killer in the 'pounding-head-against-the-desk-out-of-sheer-frustration' way. So hopefully it was worth all the head-to-desk pounding! I suppose we'll have to see. Again, thanks to reviewers and readers and people who added this to alerts and so on and so forth! And many thanks to my beta reader, IDreamOfDistantSeas! THANK YOU ALL! **Spoiler Warning: Seasons 1-3 of Warehouse 13. Emotion Warning: This is a sad-ish chapter. **Like, more so than others…if that's possible. Just a heads up.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13. If I did, there would've been more Claudia-Artie banter in season 3.**

**Chapter 12: Realization**

**San Diego, California, 2014…**

_This is a familiar scene._

She's sitting in the El Camino once more, staring across the street, trying to pluck up enough confidence to get out and go knock on the Catherine Jinks' front door.

She glances at the manila folder in her lap. Mrs. Jinks apparently moved here shortly after Steve's death…it isn't really surprising. There was probably nothing left for the poor woman in New Jersey…

She sifts through the rest of the file, shaking her head because Artie's thought of _everything._ There's more in the glove box than a few phone numbers, as he'd led her to believe. There's a whole stack of files, documents…detailing everything about Steve's death. Autopsy reports, the obituary… _everything_. There's also a small, black case with a cryptic post-it-note attached, instructing her not to open it until she's finished talking to Catherine Jinks.

_Once a Cold War spy, always a Cold War spy._

She closes the file and tosses it onto the passenger seat, next to a small cardboard box containing the metronome.

She'd done research, shortly after she decided she was still going to bring him back. It was easy enough to hack the Warehouse files and read up on the artifact—its side effects, how it worked, and so on—and according to what she'd found, the metronome would still work, even if the body was in a state of advanced decay. Of course, the procedure got trickier depending on how much decomposition there was…but she was willing to risk it. For Steve.

_Alright…_she takes a few deep breaths. Rolls her shoulders, wonders nervously if the blazer is enough to make her look…professional.

_Probably not._

Well, it's too late to ditch the business casual. She climbs out of the car and goes over her cover story once more.

_Steve's old partner. Just revisiting the case. Need permission to exhume the body, as we've found new evidence to suggest foul play…_ And, inevitably, when Steve's back and there needs to be some…explanation…_He was in deep cover. Faked his own death, had to go into witness protection. _Yes. It's all worked out. It's taken three years, but now it's falling into place.

She rings the doorbell, déjà vu kicking in. _Just a few days ago. Standing on another porch, feeling like a completely different person._

The door creaks open, and it's not Myka and her gun. _Obviously._ It's a small, older woman, with silver hair and a face that vaguely resembles Steve's.

"…Yes?" the woman asks.

_It's the eyes. The eyes are the same._

"Ah…" _Cover story. Give her the cover story. _"Hi—I mean, uh, Hello. I'm Agent—"

"Oh, yes! Your supervisor called and said you were coming." The woman smiles warmly, but it fades a little as she goes on. "He mentioned that it was…about Steve. It's Agent Nielsen, right?"

"I…" _What?_ It isn't the supervisor part that throws her. It's the fake name.

_Artie._

"Yea—yes." She recovers. _He really did think of everything._ "I'm…yes." Catherine nods and invites her in. She steps across the threshold into a small, clean living room. It's decorated sparsely…the furniture is all straight lines and sharp edges. There's nothing on the end tables, and the bookshelf is virtually empty. She thinks she spies a copy of the Bible and a tattered edition of _A Tale of Two Cities._ There's a few other knick knacks…that's it, though.

The décor is utilitarian. No frills, no unnecessary personal touches. But the walls…

They're _covered_ with picture frames of all shapes and sizes. Inside the black, brown, brushed metal squares are photos of the same two faces; the same two faces at different points in time. There's a towhead toddler standing beside an auburn-haired kindergartner. A teenage girl's face hidden behind a hockey mask, a beaming ten-year-old by her side holding a small trophy aloft.

"Agent Nielsen?"

Sometimes there's a man and a woman in the photos, usually with their arms wrapped around the two kids. There they are camping…and another of all four sporting mouse ear hats—

"Agent Nielsen." Claudia turns, realizes she's been staring.

"S-sorry," she's quick to apologize. "I, uh…you have a lot of…great pictures." She smiles sheepishly.

"Oh, thank you," Claudia detects a hint of pride. "Photography's always been a hobby. After—" she stops. It takes her a while before she can go on. "After everything happened…I started making scrapbooks. Putting them in frames…" her sigh is weary and deep. "It makes the house feel a little fuller, I suppose."

Claudia doesn't know what to say.

Thankfully, Catherine breaks the potentially-awkward silence.

"I'm sorry...you aren't here to talk about that. You're here on official business. Have a seat," she gestures to the uncomfortable-looking sofa. "Can I get you anything to drink? I have water…or milk…"

"I'm fine, thanks," she tells her as she sits. The couch is actually more uncomfortable than it appears, if that's possible.

"…Alright," Steve's mother stands a moment or two longer, wringing her hands. She eyes the seat across from Claudia with hesitance, like she's not ready to sit just yet. Like she doesn't want to talk or—

_Oh._

"Well, actually…water would be great. Please." Catherine brightens, and hurries off to the kitchen, and Claudia knows that she guessed correctly. The woman needs a little while longer to mentally prepare herself.

_So do I._ Claudia thinks bleakly. She had questions planned…but she doesn't know how much Artie told the woman. And as much as she'd like to just get to the point, she doesn't think it would be appropriate to open with, "_Hey, can I exhume your son's dead body?"_

And something else is bothering her. She still can't figure out the thinking behind the false name. Does it have something to do with Jane tracking her? That must be it. But would Catherine _tell_ anyone about this? It isn't really something you bring up in daily conversation. _Oh, yes. The other day I went to the grocery store. Then I talked to a federal agent about my son's mysterious death._

Yeah…not exactly small talk.

_So why the fake name?_ She can't think of a plausible reason. She isn't _too_ concerned, though…and actually…it's kind of nice. The feeling of attachment that the name brings. She knows it's stupid…But she can't help that she likes it. Because in her mind….it's sometimes difficult, being a Donovan. The only other Donovan is a continent away, and he's in the same predicament. A lone twenty-something with no real lineage. No traceable roots.

There are other Berings. Other Lattimers. There's only one Nielsen.

But now, for there duration of this interview, there's two.

It cheers her up. Boosts her confidence. She's sure the Shrinks would have a heyday with that, but she doesn't care. She stopped caring about what the Shrinks said when she was ten.

"Here we are," Catherine eventually comes back in with two glasses of water. She places one on the coffee table, and hands Claudia the other.

"Thanks," she says as she accepts it.

"Not a problem." Again, Catherine hovers and wrings her hands…but she eventually sits this time.

She's ready.

"So…" Claudia starts. "My…supervisor…did he tell you anything else?" she needs to figure out what exactly Artie's been up to. Because apparently, his preparation has far exceeded phone numbers and fake ID's.

"Just that you'd be checking up, really." She said. "…To be honest, I didn't know what to expect. I mean…it's just so out of the blue…Three years…" her eyes drift to the far wall. Claudia risks a glance at the cluster of photos, and immediately knows the woman's staring at the one slightly off to the right. It's Steve, grinning, in his ATF jacket.

"Yes…we, ah…" _suspect foul play. Want to reopen the case. Dig up the body._ "Want to see how you're doing…?" Claudia wants to _cringe,_ it sounds so fake.

A flicker of suspicion crosses the woman's features. Claudia can just imagine what's going through her head. _Three years later, and they're all of a sudden concerned with my emotional well-being?_ Maybe psychiatrists can pull that off. Government officials? Not so much.

"It's not any easier," Mrs. Jinks says suddenly. Claudia hopes the surprise isn't evident on her face. "I thought…I thought the world had ended, after Liv," she looks up. "My daughter. She…passed. Quite some time ago." Mrs. Jinks wrings her hands again as she tells her this.

And it is the hardest thing, pretending this is new information. Pretending that she knows nothing about Olivia Jinks, or her untimely death. _Why did Artie tell her I was someone else? Why didn't he tell her I was Steve's partner?_

"I'm very sorry," is all she can manage. An uncomfortable dryness makes her throat ache. God, she doesn't want to cry. _Wouldn't be professional._ That, and she's had enough with the waterworks. Seriously.

The other woman shrugs stiffly.

"But then my husband…and then Steve." She shakes her head. "You don't ever…imagine that kind of thing. You don't think that you'll outlive your spouse…let alone your kids…"

_This was a terrible idea._ She really shouldn't be here. Talking to Steve's mom, digging up the painful past. And she should know better, shouldn't she? She's been there, after all. She can recall the endless stream of officers, all of them asking countless questions about Joshua. Did she remember anything? Could she describe the incident? For twelve years, it was the worst hurt imaginable, to be alone. To be without family.

But then Joshua came back. And she found the Warehouse. So…she wasn't _really_ alone.

Catherine Jinks was.

_That's why you need to do this._ She tried to convince herself. But each minute spent here feels…wrong, somehow.

"Again I, uh…I'm sorry, ma'am." She offers. Catherine just gives her the same stiff shrug.

"It…happens." She doesn't sound so certain of that. "…I'm sorry, did you have questions for me?"

Claudia stares, unprepared for the complete 180 degree turn in the conversation, and for Catherine's curt tone of voice.

"Uh…well…" she tries to come up with some questions. Tries to think back to the endless _Castle _marathons that Pete made her sit through. "…Yes. Do you, ah…recall anything? From…ah…the time just prior to Steve's death?"

Mrs. Jinks laugh is sharp and short.

"Oh, yes, I remember. I don't think I'll ever forget." Her voice gradually warms and she goes on, and Claudia's detecting a pattern. Any chance she can have to talk about her children…well, the good times with her kids anyway…she opens up. _Not really shocking._ "He was so…happy, months before. He was calling more." She drops her voice a little, and Claudia can hear the shame as she says, "It was hard on us…Steve's…decision. Well, mostly his father. They weren't…terribly close after that. But then Daniel got sick, and they made amends…and then Steve got a new job. And he was happy again."

Try as she might, Claudia couldn't keep the grin off of her face. _He was happy there. With us._

"He kept going on and on about his co-workers. Which surprised me…Steve wasn't usually so…social, I guess is the right word? He was quite to himself, you could say. I always thought it was because of Liv. They were best friends, those two…" Claudia's afraid for a moment that she's going to stop talking. She wants her to go on. She wants her to keep talking about Steve.

Catherine reaches for her water glass with a shaking hand. Takes a long sip. When she finishes, she returns the glass to the coffee table. She closes her eyes and exhales loudly.

"I'm sorry. I just...it's been a while. Since I've talked about it."

"Don't," Claudia rushes to say. Her brow furrows, and she adds, "be. Sorry, I mean. Don't be sorry about…that." _God, had a total Artie moment right there. _"If you don't want to talk—"

"No, no." The woman interrupts. "I…it's good. Talking to someone. I don't often get a chance to tell people about Steve and Liv." Claudia nods, and wishes she were better with people. Maybe if she wasn't so damn nervous, she could impart to Steve's mother that she understands. As it is, though, she feels like an intruder. An ill-prepared, underdressed intruder.

"S-sure," she sputters weakly.

"Well…as I was saying…Steve was just _thrilled_ with his new job. He always had a story to tell, each time he called." Claudia blinks. Steve didn't…was his mom his One? "About…oh, what was his boss' name? Artie? And…their names. I'm terrible with names. Pete, I think. And Mika?" Claudia has to physically bite her tongue to keep from automatically correcting her. _Myka._ "Like this one time, he called, so excited because they'd found a stray dog. And then something about lasagna and a broom…" Catherine starts to laugh and cry all at once. Happy tears fill her eyes. "He sounded like he was ten years old again. _'Mom, we got a dog! He's so smart.'"_ She continues to laugh. "It was like they were a family to him. Not just co-workers."

Claudia finds herself nodding. She remembers the broom incident, actually. She has to constantly remind herself that she's supposedly hearing all of this for the first time though, thanks to Artie and the fake identity. It takes every ounce of willpower she has not to join in the reminiscing.

"I see." Her voice catches a little. She clears her throat and hopes it isn't noticed.

"Oh, it sounded absolutely _hectic. _But he kept begging me to come out and visit. He worked in South Dakota…but I suppose you knew that." She frowns, and grows somber once more. "I just never got around to it. I meant to…he kept telling me about this girl working with him."

Claudia goes numb.

"You can imagine how surprised I was, to hear him going on about a _girl._ But he insisted that she was the spitting image of Liv. 'She's brilliant,' he'd tell me. 'Funny. Kind. Just like Liv.' Hours, he would have me on the phone, talking about her. Claudia, I think her name was."

She grips her knee so tightly that her knuckles turn white. How is she supposed to react to _that?_ How is she supposed to pretend she doesn't know anything about this, when she wants so badly to jump up and yell,_ 'Your son was my partner! We were the family he kept talking about! It was us!'_

She wants to tell Catherine that she knows how much it hurts to not have Steve here anymore. That the deep ache used to rob her of sleep and made it hard to breathe; made it hard to imagine getting up the next morning. She wants to tell her about how she taught Steve to play chess. About their inside jokes. The long conversations that would stretch late into the night as they talked about dead siblings and _Laverne and Shirley._ She wants to thank her. She wants to thank her, because if not for her, Steve never would have been a part of her life. At the same time, she resents the woman, just a little. Because again, if not her for, Steve never would have been a part of her life.

Most of all, she wants to tell her about Steve's last day. The way he'd smiled at her, what he'd said: _"I couldn't save my sister, but I can protect you."_ His bravery. His self-sacrifice. She wants to tell her that it wasn't a heart defect. That Steve was murdered. That the man who did it had been brought to justice. That she'd _taken care of it._

But of course, she can't say any of that. Because right now, she isn't Claudia Donovan, Steve's former partner. Right now, she's Agent Nielsen.

_Damn it, Artie…why did you do this to me?_

"But then," Claudia looks up at Catherine through the haze of suppressed emotions. "Right before. He told me that he'd been fired. He didn't explain. I asked him, I called him constantly…but he was very distant. I should've known something was wrong…that he wasn't feeling well, because not even a week later they called and—"

_"We're sorry to inform you…"_

"And he was gone. Just like that."

_No, not just like that. There was a whole…it was a whole thing. A whole…awful thing. _A whole, awful thing that she had to witness first hand.

"I…" she's so close to telling her everything. She's thinking of ditching Artie's hidden agenda and just coming clean about this whole trip…heck, she's inches from revealing the truth about the _Warehouse._ She's never been tempted to do that before. Well…there was that time with Todd…but it was more a joke than anything else. _This_ is entirely different. It's not a joke…it's frightening and disconcerting and very, _very _tempting.

"And I…" Catherine is still talking. "My world ended a third time. It didn't seem…it was very surreal, I suppose. It didn't feel like he was really gone. I'd wake up each day, waiting for him to call." She brushes the tears from her face. "…Silly, I guess. You'd think I'd be an old pro when it comes to…things like this. It should've been easier."

"No, it shouldn't have." She exclaims without thinking. Catherine raises her eyebrows. Claudia gulps.

_Nice move, Einstein. Explain your way out of this one. _"I, uh…I've lost a few…people I care about. My…partner, in particular." She swallows the lump in her throat. "It, ah…doesn't get any easier."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Catherine murmurs. She sits up. "Listen to me…going on like this! I keep getting sidetracked, I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine," Claudia assures her. "Really, it's…it's okay."

"But you must be here for a reason." Catherine probes. "I've been talking so much…what was it about Steve that you wanted to know? There isn't…there isn't anything…wrong, is there?" she suddenly sounds _very_ worried. Not just worried…_fearful._

"Uh…" _Now's your chance._

"I just couldn't—" Catherine blurts, noticeably distraught. Now it's Claudia's turn to raise her eyebrows. Once she calms down, Catherine says, "It was hard, like I said…but Steve was so…he had such faith. He…left me a letter, you see. Assuring me that he was…that his belief helped him. He wasn't afraid of death. He even wrote—" The silence is painful, and lasts for such a long time. "He said that he'd be happy. That maybe, after so many rebirths, he'd finally make it to…he'd finally see Liv again. Somehow. He wasn't sure, of course. Maybe it was meant to be a joke…to make me feel better. Oh, Steve was _awful_ at joking."

Claudia feels shame heat her face. Because she'd asked Steve about everything, of course. Anything and everything you could think of. But she never did get around to asking him about his belief. His faith.

_Keep the faith, Claud._

"It helped me. To cope…and now I'm finally at peace with it all, because I truly believe that…they're finally…together again. Somewhere. I don't know…I must sound crazy." Catherine shakes her head. "But…please. If there's…if there's something you've found…I don't know if you can…can avoid telling me…"

She's wringing her hands again. Her entire body is leaning forward, the anxiety making deep lines in her face. Her eyes are wide, pleading. _Don't tell me. _

"…"

_Three years. Three years you've planned this. Three years…this moment is what got you through it. Through the long, cold nights spent alone, far from South Dakota and Pete and Myka and Leena and Artie…you have to do this._ She's fighting herself. Forcing herself to remember why she's here, what she has to do….

_You have to bring him back. You promised. You promised yourself. You promised__** him.**_

_But would he want this?_

"No. We haven't found anything, ma'am." Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears. Like it belongs to someone else. She finds herself standing, collecting her plain black messenger bag and drab blazer. "We just…wanted to see how you were doing."

Of course Catherine Jinks looks unconvinced at _that,_ just as Claudia thought she would. But she doesn't say so. She just nods, and stands as well.

"I…alright…" she says, showing Claudia to the door. "…Should I expect a visit three years from now?" the comment is light. A joke, even...but there's more to it. Claudia might not have the best people skills, but she's perceptive enough to know that it's a subtle way of saying '_I know there's more to this. More you aren't telling me.'_

"No, ma'am." Claudia's amazed to find herself smiling. "We won't take up any more of your time."

"Alright. Well, thank you." She says. "Thank you…for listening, Agent Niel—"

She extends her hand.

"Claudia." She tells the woman, hoping she'll understand. "It's Claudia."

At first, she's sure that Catherine hasn't caught the hint, because the woman reaches for her hand quickly and shakes it without a second thought. But then the words sink in, and her grip tightens somewhat. Catherine gradually brings her eyes up to meet hers. Confusion is evident on her delicate features.  
>"You…"<p>

"Thank you for your time." She leaves the porch before the woman can say anything else, crossing the street and settling into the El Camino. She tosses the blazer into the backseat, along with the messenger bag, and pulls on her seatbelt.

She glances out the window, to see Mrs. Jinks still standing on the porch, a knowing smile on her face.

_She understands._

She returns the smile and heads out. She makes it a few blocks before she has to pull over and lean into the comforting pleather of the steering wheel, intermittently crying and laughing and pounding the dash. She feels horrible and relieved and miserable and happy and _God. _It's confusing. She doesn't know how she feels, actually. But she knows she did the right thing. Sitting there, listening to Catherine…hearing about Steve…she can't bring him back. He'd hate her for it. He'd never forgive her…because he was at peace. He was…okay with it. And maybe he's still at peace, wherever he is. And she can't…she can't even _imagine_ taking him from that. Pulling him back when he knew from the time he was very young and lost his sister that you can only move forward.

She's still laughing and crying when she looks over at the cardboard box with the metronome. A lot of good that did her, in the end. A lot of good the last _three years _did her, come to think of it.

_All for nothing._ The steering wheel is a comforting support as the weight of the statement hits her. Actually, that statement isn't the most troubling. It's the next statement that comes to mind.

_Now what?_

She glares at the artifact. _Now what, now what, now wha—_ She sits up. The black case and cryptic post-it-note sit right beside the cardboard box. Artie's instructions were pretty specific…she was supposed to open it now.

_But I didn't get the information from her. I didn't get the signatures, the proper forms…_She sighs, and can feel Artie's disapproving glare from several states off.

She reaches over and grabs the box. It's the size of a large paperback book, but heavier. She has to pause for a moment and try to imagine what it could be…because it can't be more documents. Maybe…maybe it's neutralizer, for the metronome?

_But he would just send a canister with me, wouldn't he?_ This wouldn't be enough for the metronome anyway. And why would she want to neutralize it?

She sits for a while longer, thinking. Thinking about the documents. About the phone call ahead to Mrs. Jinks. About the fake name, and the cryptic messages, and how _easily_ he handed over the metronome. Almost like…like he knew she wouldn't…go through with it.

An idea begins to form at the back of her mind.

She carefully opens the box.

And she nearly drops it.

Staring back at her, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, is her Farnsworth.

A piece of rumpled, yellow, memo-pad paper is shoved in the side. It falls out when she removes the metal device. Its familiar weight settles in her hands. Distractedly, she picks up the note, still reveling in the sensation of the cold metal against her skin. The squeak of the hinges as she opens it up, the brilliant shine of the copper wires…

_God, she's missed this thing._

She has to tear her gaze away from the Farnsworth to glance at the note. It's in Artie's typical, tangled script. To anyone else it would seem like an unintelligible mess, but she's not _anyone else._ She's the kid who spent two years pouring over his notes and research, learning to read his hopeless handwriting.

_If you're reading this, it means you've finished talking to Mrs. Jinks and you've made the right choice. Now hurry back. There's three years' worth of inventory waiting for you._

-_Artie_

It she was unsure before, she isn't now.

_This_ was his plan all along.

**XXXX**

**And there ya have it! A few endnotes before moving on…I used comments made by Jack Kenny (Warehouse 13 showrunner, for those uninformed) to kind of shape how I wrote Steve's family. From what I gather, Steve's family was more conservative, and Steve had a hard time. So…yeah. Also! I decided that Steve is a Zen Buddhist. I don't know if it conflicts with anything said on the show…but for the purposes of the fic, he's Zen. Also! If you are at all curious about the lasagna and broom incident, well you can read about it in 'Gotta Love Pavlov!' (Yes. That was a shameless plug for my other fic. Apologies.) And finally, I'm sure that some folks will be less than pleased with Claudia's decision. If you are at all upset that Steve is still six feet under, please let me know in a review…because if there is enough response (read: Outrage) I may be tempted to create an ALTERNATE ENDING. But like I said, I need to know what folks think! So drop a review! They are always appreciated! Now then: NEXT UP! Epilogue… **


	14. Chapter 13: Epilogue

**A/N: **Hello! Sorry for the delay again…I wanted this chapter to be _just right._ So it took a while.

Just want to take a small bit of paragraph here to thank reviewers: THANKS TO jaded river hussie, Fredikayllow, parkitcharlie, WhiteIce,NCIS-Ziva-Abby, tmmdeathwishraven, KJay99, The Sheep Of Destiny, manitilde, oahfoah, TheGothAndTheGeek, Munchkinface, Silentblood04, xXBlondie12Xx, Camaro-Enthusiast, Fishing Gurl, darklucine, Kirk Baldridge, cherehatter, StormaggedonDarkLordofAll, Jimmy 144 and a HUGE THANKS to beta IDreamOfDistantSeas.

Woof. Okay, apologies about the length, but I just wanted to thank folks. (apologies for any incorrect spellings and apologies if I missed anyone) And thanks to all who added this to alerts, as well. :) NOW THEN! DOWN TO BUSINESS! **Spoiler Warning For Seasons 1-3 of Warehouse 13**

**I don't own Warehouse 13. **If I did Fargo would be in a lot more episodes. Just sayin'.

**Chapter 13: Epilogue **

**Leena's Bed and Breakfast, sometime in the near future…**

"No."

"Yes."

"_No._"

"Yes."

"You're delusional."

"I'm not." She says. "Michael Keaton was a better Batman than Val Kilmer."

"Blasphemy!" Pete cries, throwing his hands into the air and flinging scrambled eggs across the table. "Val Kilmer was an _awesome_ Batman. Way better than Keaton."

"Dude, keep your eggs to yourself, please." She flicks the bit of breakfast back in his direction, and realizes what a bad decision that was, as a wicked grin spreads across his face. He raises his French toast-laden fork, pulls it back with one finger, and—

"_Stop right there."_

Pete cringes.

"Busted."

Leena stands with her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

"How many times have I told you? _No food fights._" She shifts her eyes back and forth between the two of them. Pete takes a sheepish bite of his French toast.

"She started it," he mutters. Claudia scoffs.

"I'm the Warehouse Caretaker," she says with an exaggerated air of superiority. Pete rolls his eyes. "I don't start food fights."

She waits until Leena heads back to the kitchen before adding, with a wicked grin of her own, "But I _finish_ them."

"_Bring it,_ Obi-Wan." He challenges.

She dodges the eggs and barely avoids the French toast, tossing back an orange peel and some hash browns. The peel makes contact.

_SLAP_.

"Watch the hair!" he half cries, half laughs. She raises her fork in triumph.

"I think I win," she declares. "That was a direct blow to the gel. Ten points."

"Oh, _heck no._" Pete gingerly removes the peel. "Lucky shot. Watch how a pro handles it." He selects a choice bit of bread crust and lets it fly. Claudia once again ducks, though, and the crust goes sailing right past her, winding up in Artie's face as he enters the room.

_Thup._

"Artie!" Pete hurriedly sits up straight in his chair, tidying his plate and covering the rest of the bread crust with his napkin. Claudia follows suit. "Hey, man. Morning."

"What," Artie growls, "is _this?_" He plucks the bread crust from his face. Claudia covers her mouth with her hand in an effort to suppress her snicker.

"Uh…that is sourdough. I think. Maybe whole wheat. Here, I'll just get rid of tha—"

"Just," Artie motions for him to remain in his chair. "Stay put. I don't want to know. I _really_ don't want to know." To himself, he grumbles, "I'm _too old_ for this."

Claudia overhears, of course, and pats his shoulder as he sits down.

"Hey. I'm the only one who gets to make cracks about your age, Geezer," she informs him, and he puts on a bemused expression, gesturing to his forehead.

"You have a little…"

She brushes the egg from her hair, tossing a glower at Pete.

"Not cool."

"I think it's a tie."

"I don't want to know." Artie reminds himself. He rubs his face and scratches at his neatly trimmed beard. "Now, if you two _children_ are finished playing with your food, we have a case. Where's Myka?"

"Right here!" The other agent announces as she hurries to the table. Her dark hair is wet from a recent shower, but already beginning to frizz. "Sorry…_someone_ used all the hot water, so I had to wait a bit." She looks at Pete as she says it.

"Sorry Mykes." He says with a helpless shrug. Myka gives him a hard look, but it softens as she sinks into her chair.

"Alright then, now that we've had our daily, recommended amount of _chaos_ this morning, maybe we can get down to business?" Artie poses the question. All three nod their agreement. "Good." He passes folders to Pete and Myka. "Something in Brussels causing a ruckus." He explains.

"Define _ruckus."_ Pete says.

"Mass hallucinations." Artie replies

"Ah."

"So! You two have a plane to catch." The older agent stands and hustles them towards the hall. Pete and Myka reluctantly obey and head towards the front door, Pete mumbling something about case briefings getting shorter and shorter.

Claudia stands as well and looks hopefully at Artie as he gathers his things. He doesn't notice right away, as he's intent on shoving papers and folders and a croissant into his black bag. But then, when he looks up, and sees her questioning expression, he shakes his head. _No._

"Aw, man," she mutters dejectedly. He shrugs.

"We'll do inventory."

"C'mon, Artie. I thought that the Caretaker was exempt from stuff like that."

"Now when they're on probation, they're not." He tells her. She slouches.

"Right."

They head out into the hall, where Pete and Myka are pulling on their coats and gloves to fight the early morning chill. Their packed duffle bags sit by the front door.

"I know it isn't much to go on," Artie says by way of apology to the both of them. "But the reports have been…eh…vague. I'd suggest looking into nearby art galleries…Magritte had a particularly pesky pipe and, funny story, actually—"

"Will do, Artie." Pete slaps his shoulder before he can get much deeper into his 'funny story.' Artie frowns in annoyance, prompting both Pete and Claudia to grin.

"Good luck, you guys," she says to them. Pete nods his thanks, as he always does. Claudia casts a hesitant look in Myka's direction. The other agent is standing farther back, closer to the door. She shifts from foot to foot, like she's anxious to leave.

Claudia's grin fades. They still aren't…100%, exactly. Some days are good…some days they can talk and joke and it's like nothing ever happened between the two of them. Some days…Myka is withdrawn, distant. Other days she avoids her entirely and they're strangers again.

She holds her breath, waiting for some kind of clue from the older woman.

Myka meets her gaze, and smiles. Claudia heaves a relieved sigh.

It's a good day.

"Alright, get a move on, you two. Call us when you land. We'll look into Surrealist artifacts. Claudia?"

"On it." She tells him, grabbing the keys to the El Camino. "See you in ten."

The ragtag group exits the B&B. Pete and Myka head to their nondescript black SUV, Artie to his precious Jag, and Claudia to the beat up gold El Camino. One of these days she'll actually get a paycheck, maybe. And then she'll be able to get something a little less 1972.

She gets in and watches as Artie peels out of the gravel drive, the bright red car disappearing around the turn up ahead. The SUV leaves the driveway much more slowly, crawling onto the road with unnecessary caution, as no one really drives all the way out here to Middle-Of-Nowhere, South Dakota. It takes off in the opposite direction, Pete belatedly rolling down his window and giving her a thumbs up…or a peace sign. She can't really tell.

The engine starts, rough and loud, and it takes a while for the ancient auto to get going. Several minutes pass before the speedometer climbs to a whopping 35 MPH.

_Artie seriously needs to retire this thing._ She thinks as the sparse landscape passes by. She turns up the radio to its loudest setting, but the engine still rattles noisily and drowns out "Change My Needs."

_Weird._ It's never usually this bad.

She frowns, and suddenly the speedometer plummets to zero.

"Wha—"

The car lurches to an unsteady stop. Smoke plumes from under the hood. She resists the urge to pound her fist against the wheel.

_Seriously? Damn karma again!_

She's ready to whip out her Farnsworth and yell at Artie for providing such a POC car, but she happens to glance in the side view mirror, and lets loose a heartfelt groan as a large black town car pulls up behind the crippled El Camino. Claudia rolls her eyes and opens the door.

"Rigging the engine to blow. Gotta say, I was _not_ expecting that, Jane." she calls as the Regent climbs out of the back seat of the Lincoln, the door held open by a tall, mute driver. The older woman just smiles.

"It's hardly a new trick. We once sabotaged an entire motorcade to get a few moments alone with the President."

Claudia doesn't want to be, but she's impressed.

"So…what? You blew up my car so we could _talk_?" She hopes her annoyance is obvious…she really could've done without the whole 'manipulative Regent' act today. Actually, she might've been up for it, had they not chosen to kill the Camino.

Jane doesn't answer right away, and they stand in mutual silence. A stiff breeze kicks up clouds of dun colored earth. The tall grass on either side of the lonely road bends back, making wave-like ripples in the yellow fields. Another gust tugs her short red hair out from behind her ear, stray strands falling into her eyes. She absently brushes it back into place.

"I came to talk to you about your probation." The Regent eventually says. Claudia raises a suspicious eyebrow.

"We couldn't have done this in the office?"

"I felt this setting offered a bit more privacy."

"You could've just asked Artie to step out of the room, you know."

"This is how we do things, Claudia, whether or not you agree—"

"I _don't._" She tells her, crossing her arms as the wind picks up again. Her thin jacket doesn't do much to fend off the crisp autumn air. "I _don't_ agree with how you do things."

"I'd be careful, Miss Donovan_,_" Jane warns her. Claudia cringes. She always hated it when Mrs. Frederic called her that…she finds she still doesn't really care for it. Jane goes on, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. "You're on very thin ice as it is."

She huffs and casts her eyes towards the ground. That's true enough. She's been on probation for months…but of course she's tested the limits of her sentence. Probably a bit more than is really wise. But whenever the Regent comes to call and threatens further punishment, she plays the 'for the good of the Warehouse' card and manages to just get a slap on the wrist. And, of course, being the Caretaker helps her case…some. Not as much as she would've thought, though.

She suspects it's because Jane had been none too pleased by Artie's plan. Well, she wasn't pleased with his _methods._ Of course she was glad to have her Caretaker back. But the whole 'going behind her back and orchestrating such a risky maneuver without calling me' thing kind of put her off a bit.

_"Until we're certain you two can be trusted again," Jane started, "you're both restricted to the Warehouse."_

_ "What?" Claudia demanded. "I—I get that __**I'm**__ being punished…but you can't do that to Art—"_

_ "Claudia," Artie cut her off. "Let it go."_

_ She did, but she didn't like it._

_ "It will allow you time to…adjust." Jane went on to explain. She nodded to Dr. Calder. Vanessa hung back for a moment, looking between the three of them, and reluctantly stepped forward. Claudia visibly tensed, but Artie placed a steady hand on her shoulder._

_**You can do this.**_

_"And until we lift the probation, __**I**__will be sharing the tasks of Warehouse Caretaker, as I've been doing. The shackle allows for a limited degree of control and connection, and…" her words faded. Or maybe they didn't…Claudia wasn't entirely sure. She was too focused on the menacing green ribbon. Her stomach knotted itself and her breathing quickened. It reminded her somewhat of when she was at Mellinger's, and she'd have blood drawn. (Something about some kind of testing…she couldn't really remember.) What she __**did**__ remember was watching the nurse approach, needle in hand, feeling the same cold sweat break out on the back of her neck, feeling the same tightening of her stomach and rapid beating of her heart._

_ "You can do this."_

_Only, this time, it wasn't in her head. Artie had said it out loud._

"But," Jane says, pulling Claudia from her thoughts. "I'll admit that we…the Regents…we're very used to doing things our own way. For centuries, the Warehouse Regents have been governed by the same ideals, the same codes of conduct…we haven't done a good job of changing with the times." There's a long pause. It forces Claudia to look up from her shoes and meet the woman's eyes.

"No…really? With the 1940's communication devices, and the guns from 1898?" Jane ignores the sarcastic jab.

"What I'm trying to say is...this might be what we need. It's time we had a fresh perspective. It's time we were more…open-minded. Tried things a different way." She takes a deep breath. "Claudia…the Warehouse needs you. Not…not in the sense that it needs a Caretaker. Of course it needs a Caretaker but…the Warehouse specifically chose _you. _Claudia Donovan."

"Really?" Claudia asks, trying to muster up a shocked expression. At this point though, she's not fazed by too much. "I…I just assumed…that Mrs. F. picked."

"That's part of it…but it's mostly the Warehouse itself."

"…Not gonna lie. That's kind of creepy."

"I suppose so." Jane shrugs in agreement. "Regardless, the Warehouse chose you, m'dear. And you can _bet_ that made a lot of the Regents very, _very_ angry." She nods emphatically as she says it.

Claudia doesn't know whether she's offended or amused. She decides she's kind of both.

"Good to know, I guess."

"I'm only telling you because I think that means we're taking a step in the right direction."

Claudia balks.

"A step in the right direction? Towards what? Pissing off my ominous, all-powerful bosses?"

"For _change."_ This earns another eye roll.

"_Right._"

"Don't knock it, kiddo," The Regent winks. "There's already a faction rallying for me to lift the probation."

"There's…what?"

"Apparently, Artie's little stunt and your cathartic journey sat well with some folks. So well, in fact, that they got together and managed to convince me to come out here and do this." She steps forward and pulls back her sleeve. Under the flat grey material, clamped on her arm, is the Remati Shackle. A dull, aged bronze against her pale skin.

Claudia stares for a moment. _What the heck—_ But Jane quickly grabs her wrist and touches it to the shackle. She yelps, as a sharp, short pain passes across the surface of her skin. Like…a static shock. She yanks her hand back.

"What was that about?"

"Congrats, Claudia. You're now the official Caretaker of Warehouse 13." Jane gestures grandly. Claudia's still reeling a little from the zap. She rubs her wrist, the pain failing to subside.

"And I wasn't _before?_"

"Not entirely. As I said, I was sharing the duties of Caretaker. Now it's all on you, kiddo."

"I think I'm a little old for that nickname." Claudia mutters. Jane smiles and heads back to her car.

"When you reach 100, then we'll talk."

"Not funny."

Jane turns to her driver. "Jim's laughing, aren't you Jim?"

"Yes ma'am."

"See?"

Claudia shakes her head and scoffs to mask the fact that she's grinning. Because, _okay_, it was kind of funny. Marginally.

Jim holds the back door of the car open for Jane and she climbs inside. Claudia leans against the El Camino and crosses her arms, smirking, until she realizes that she's leaning against a _dead_ El Camino. Her eyes widen.

"Hey…hey, wait a sec!" she cries as the Lincoln begins to pull away. Jane rolls down the window slightly. She can just barely see her eyes over the tinted glass. "You're not going to fix the car?"

"You're a smart girl. We trust you can handle it."

"Well, shucks…wouldn't you know I left my tool belt at home." Claudia snarls. "You're not even going to give me a lift?"

"We'll be in touch." Jane's eyes crinkle—she's _smiling._ Claudia's ready to throw some choice words her way, but the window rolls up with a soft _whiiiirrrp._ She jumps back as the Lincoln leaps forward, tires spewing gravel and dust every which way.

"C'mon!" Claudia yells at the black car. "Not even gonna show me that weird teleport trick?" But of course the car is already halfway down the road. She glowers in its general direction. "_God,_ I hate Regents."

She heads back to the sad excuse of a vehicle and slumps against it once more, not really sure where to go from here. Both literally and figuratively, come to think of it.

_Official Caretaker of Warehouse 13._ She pulls back her sleeve and examines her wrist. There's no mark…no indication that anything actually happened to it. To her. And yet…she can still feel the skin kind of…buzzing? Is that the right word? Well, it's the only words she can come up with to describe the bizarre sensation. It scares her, slightly. Sure, she's been acting Caretaker for a while now…but due to the restriction, she'd only been allowed the slightest degree of control over the strange abilities that came with the job. Which basically consisted of a kind of map of the Warehouse in her head. (And to be honest, that wasn't so bad. She knew the place like the back of her hand anyway.) Now she has to wonder…what else is going on inside her brain?

She's startled out of that train of thought by her Farnsworth.

_BRRZZZZZZT. BRZZZZZZRT._ She grins. The sound is comforting. Familiar. It makes her forget about Jane and the Regents and the Warehouse in her brain and the dead car. She whips the communication device out and snaps it open.

"Yeah?" she says to Artie by way of greeting. He frowns.

"Where are you?" he shouts. The image is grayscale, but she just _knows_ his face is bright pink with anger. She smirks.

"Car trouble, Grumps."

"Car troub…what? That's not—okay, okay _fine._ Just…hurry up, will ya? Pete and Myka need that information as soon as possible. And I'm having a hard time with this search engine here…"

"Aw Artie. What would you do without me?" she teases him, heading for the front of the car.

"Not worry half as much." He mutters. She considers his statement.

"Probably right." She agrees as she opens up the hood and examines the innards of the car. "Anyways…I'll be there as soon as I can manage to fix whatever it was that Jane messed up."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just…I'll see you in a few." She assures him with a smile. He grunts, but she's pretty sure she sees a smidgeon of a smirk beneath his beard. He mumbles his goodbyes and vanishes from the screen as it goes dark and fades to its milky grey. She pockets the Farnsworth and turns her attention to the engine, grinning like a fool.

Because in spite of the smoldering El Camino, she's happy. She's where she belongs. She's with people she loves.

She is not alone.

**XXXX**

**There ya have it folks! This has been**_** ALONE**_**, a WAREHOUSE 13 FANFIC. And hey…look at that! 13 chapters! (Technically if we don't count the prologue.) Coincidence? Perhaps… :D Anyways, I know folks were happy with Claudia's decision. (Which I'm really glad about…I was worried I'd have to face an angry riot of Jinksie fans…heh) But I do have an alternate ending, which I will most likely post. SO! If some of you are sad to see this fic end, stay tuned! If you aren't, and you're pleased with the ending, then thanks for reading, and glad you enjoyed it! :) Feel free to drop a review either way!**


	15. Alternate Chapter 12: Awake

**A/N: **Howdy all! Sorry for yet another delayed update. General craziness got in the way of this alternate ending…but! It's here now, and hopefully it will appease Jinks fans. **Spoiler Warning: Seasons 1-3 of Warehouse 13.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13. **If I did there would be no Twizzlers. Red Vines, perhaps. But certainly no Twizzlers. XD

**Alternate Chapter 12: Awake**

**Somewhere…sometime in the near future…**

_ Tick, tick, tick, tick._

He's sleeping. He has to be sleeping…because it's only when you're asleep that it's this dark. This empty.

There are no thoughts. There are no dreams.

Just the dark.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

He can't see, can't hear, can't smell, can't move. For a long time he can't feel, either. But now…now there's a stirring. He doesn't know where…but there is movement. Somewhere in the darkness, something is moving. Coming to life.

_Tick, tick, tick, thump._

He can hear again. He can hear the rhythmic ticking. An alarm clock? That would make sense, since he's sleeping. But it feels so much deeper…so much heavier and thicker than sleep.

_Tick, thump. Tick, thump. Tick, thump._

The stirring is stronger and there's an aching pain alongside it. He knows _where_ now. It's on his chest. A painful weight on his chest. Growing stronger as the ticking grows louder.

_Tick, thump. Tick, thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

There's a sudden coolness in his throat. It moves up from his lungs and into his mouth and through his nose. It's startling, how cold it is. How…strange it feels. How foreign.

The cool feeling keeps coming, matching the beat of the ticking and thumping. _What is that?_ He wonders. It's the first full thought he's had since…well, he can't actually remember. All he can think of is the darkness…and now this strange feeling filling his chest and throat and—

Oh, wait. He's _breathing._

With a start, he opens his eyes. Blurred colors swarm his vision. A raw cough accompanies his sudden inhale of breath. He jerks himself into a sitting position. It makes his head throb…but for a brief moment, he can't hear the thumping.

Once the pain in his head subsides, though, the noise returns.

_Tick, thump. Tick, tick, thump._

_He was with Sykes and Marcus. They were in the office…they'd just brought back H.G. Wells…then Sykes had looked at him. Said something about…something about…_

He blinks rapidly to clear his eyesight of the troublesome spots that seem intent on sticking around. He coughs some more…deep, wet coughs. Like he's got the flu, or something.

The spots clear (finally) and he can actually look around. He doesn't know where he is—he's not in Sykes office, that's for sure. Everything is still too bright, though. There's a lot of metal…a lot of glares. And fluorescent lighting that bathes everything in an intense white.

And he's _cold._ He's really, really cold. And it seems to come from…from the _inside. _Like…his body itself is generating the chill.

But a warm hand grips his own and he starts to thaw a little.

_"Steve."_

He jumps. That's _loud._ Well, louder than he's used to. He turns, and his eyes settle on a familiar face. Rust-colored hair falls into pale brown eyes.

Claudia.

She's grinning like crazy. But she looks…different? She doesn't look…like she did in the woods.

"Hey…Claud." He blinks. Yeesh, he sounds _awful._ Like his dad, all ragged and rough and raspy. He clears his throat a little. "Did…did something happen?"

"…You could say that." She answers quietly. Well, it's quiet, but it still sounds too loud to his ears. That's hardly relevant though. Because the expression she's wearing…the way she's looking at him…he knows something _bad_ has happened.

He tries to think back. Before the dark, before the long stretch of _nothing._

Sykes.

He remembers Sykes. But what happened after?

He looks around again. The glares are dimming, thankfully. It's not as painful to look at all the stainless steel and white linoleum. They're…they're in a medical facility, it looks like. He's…he's on a metal slab. Not a hospital bed. _A slab._

Slabs are typically only found in one place.

So they're in a morgue?

And he's _on_ a slab. That means…

Oh.

_Oh._

"I was…" he gulps. It hurts. "…Dead."

"…Yeah." Claudia tells him. Again, quiet, but far too loud.

"Then…Sykes and Marcus. They…they…"

"Yeah, Steve." She obviously doesn't like talking about this. She shifts from one foot to the other, discomfort evident in her frown.

"…Wow." It's all he can think to say. He's dealt with some weird stuff at the Warehouse…slobbery scarab beetles and crazy flasks and knives that make people sick…but resurrection. That's a new one for him.

_Wait…resurrection._

He stares at Claudia.

"What did you do?" he demands. He's read the manual, and he's heard Artie's lecture on raising the dead _at least_ ten times.

"Steve, listen, I—"

He struggles to move his legs, to stand up. He's worried and scared and he doesn't know how to _feel_ about all of this. Is he happy? Is he upset? Is he having a weird hallucination? Is this some kind of test, or something? A horrible nightmare?

"Whoa, whoa!" Claudia throws up her hands. He stops moving. "Hey, man…keep your sheet on." He glances down. _Ah._ That would be why he's so cold. "Just…hang on, a sec."

She tosses a gym bag at him and retreats to the far side of the room, turning her back to him. "You can yell at me _after_ you put some pants on. Deal?" He thinks it's meant to be a joke…but it comes off a little flat.

His ears are starting to ring from his sudden movement, and his limbs don't seem to want to cooperate. It takes a full fifteen minutes to get dressed, between the lack of coordination and the weakness of his leg muscles. That, and the sensation of fabric against his skin is…strange. He's been without senses for…well, it feels like forever to him. But he's sure he hasn't been gone _too long. _Claudia doesn't look…that much older.

"Okay…" he mutters, standing unsteadily, his windbreaker unzipped and his shoes untied. He hadn't even _bothered_ with the laces. His hands are shaking too much for that. He sits back against the slab. He's _exhausted_. "Safe to turn around."

She nods, and heads back over to him. She looks him up and down with a weird expression on her face.

"What?" he asks. She shakes her head.

"Nothing." But of course it's not _nothing._ She's got tears in her eyes. And he has to remind himself that he was _dead._

"What happened?" he asks. What happened to him that was so…so awful that Claudia would do…whatever it was that she did?

Claudia winces.

"It's not important," she tries to convince him. He laughs. It sounds more like a wheeze.

"Not…not important? I _died!"_ The word scrapes across his throat and sounds like an accusation. It makes Claudia visibly flinch. But, instead of looking ashamed this time, she looks angered.

"Yeah, you _died._" She snaps, her voice raised in volume slightly. "You died that day, and it nearly _killed_ _me._ I had to see you…sitting there, pale and cold and…" she grits her teeth. "And it was for _nothing,_ Steve. It was for _nothing._"

He stares, not really understanding any of what she says. It was for nothing? No…none of that was right. None of that was supposed to happen.

"Claud…" he starts to say. She doesn't look at him. "…What do you mean?"

"Marcus injected you with the same stuff they used on Stukowski." She mutters. "It looked like a heart defect. They left you behind in the office…we went after you, you know. Went in there, ready to grab Sykes and Marcus and H.G….but we were too late. And we didn't figure out his game plan until later. Your death was…it was _senseless._"

"You didn't figure out his plan?" his heart rate quickens. Another sensation he's not used to. "Then did he…I mean…"

"The Warehouse was destroyed." She tells him, crossing her arms against the chill of the room. Maybe against the chill of her words, too. He can't be sure. "H.G. died."

He sways a little, falls against the cold metal table. That wasn't supposed to happen. He went undercover to prevent that very outcome. He wanted to keep them safe. He wanted to keep _her_ safe.

"Steve," she rushes forward and grips his arm as he falters once again. "God…you've been dead for three years. Take it easy."

"Three years?" he cries, and falls down once again. Claudia still has a grip on his arm, but he's much bigger than her, and ends up pulling them both to the floor. "It's been…three years? Claud, I…if I've been dead that long, I should be…" his stomach churns just thinking about it. "A pile of dirt."

"…" she doesn't respond. She bites her lip and stares at the speckled linoleum floor tiles.

"_Claudia."_ He says firmly. "_What did you do?"_

"The metronome." She admits. His eyes widen. "It…it works even if…well, as you put it…even if someone's a pile of dirt."

"But…but," he sputters. This is all just _too much. _"Marcus. Marcus was using the metronome. He—"

"He's dead." Her voice is razor edged, just like her gaze, as she says it. "He…tried to kill Leena. But I found the metronome and—"

"Claudia…no. No, this is all wrong. This…it goes against the laws of physics. Against the laws of nature!" he tries to stand up, tries to get her to see that this is _not right. _"You need to…put me back. Stop the metronome and put me back…" _In the ground._ It makes him shudder, but he doesn't see another way around it. He can't be here.

"No," he's not sure if she's responding to his statement, or his trying to stand up. He shakes his head.

"Claudia, this is a _bad idea._"

"It isn't," she insists.

"Artie will—"

"Artie okayed it." She rushes to say. He blinks.

She isn't lying.

"He…what?" he asks, sitting back down again.

"He's the one who gave me the metronome. I…well, it's a long story. But I…left, for a while. And then I went back for the metronome and he…just handed it over."

Ah. Now _that_ is a lie.

"No, he didn't." he narrows his eyes. "What really happened?"

"I told you, he okayed—"

"I believe that part," he nods. "What I don't believe is that it was as simple as you say it was."

He's struck a chord, or something, because her face darkens considerably and she drops her gaze. Her shoulders tense, and she's got that guarded look about her. The same guarded look she had when he asked one too many questions about the twelve years Joshua was missing. She puts on that look when she wants to keep others out. When it's too painful for her to talk about.

He reaches for her without thinking. He places his hand on the side of her face. She's got to be at least twenty-three now. A grown adult. But again, he's seen this before. With the guarded expression comes the sixteen year old kid who never healed from the things she had to go through. He read somewhere that you stop maturing after a traumatic event in your life. If that's true, then it's a miracle she's as together as she is.

Her skin is warm and smooth under his hand. And very, very _real. _Just as his cold, rough hand is real to her. For the first time, it really hits them. He's back. And in spite of what he's told her to do, he knows he won't be dying a second time. At least, not anytime soon.

"What happened?" he asks for the umpteenth time. But now, he's not referring to his death. He wants to know what happened to _her._

"It doesn't matter," she says again.

"Yes it does." _How can she keep saying that? How can she think that it doesn't matter?_ "Of course it matters. What happened, Claudia?"

The silence stretches for an indeterminable amount of time.

And then suddenly she's sitting next to him, head in her hands, telling him about…about everything that went wrong, after he died. _Everything._ Some of it—_no_. Most of it is hard to hear. Hard for him to even imagine, actually.

_She couldn't have killed Marcus…_

_She couldn't have Tesla'd Leena…_

_She couldn't have run away. She couldn't have turned her back on them…_

Years on the run. Pete and Myka going after her. Her unsuccessful break in at the Warehouse. Jane's ultimatum. Artie's forgiveness…his willingness to let her go, to take the metronome. The talk at the B&B…and then, inevitably, they reach the point in the story where past meets present.

"Some stupid cover story about…about new evidence in the case. Had to get permission to…to…"

"Exhume." He mutters. He never thought he'd use that word to describe his own body.

"Yes." She sounds tired. Very, very tired. But can he really blame her? She's gone through_ hell_ these last few years. Because of what happened to him. Because she cared so deeply about him. Because she couldn't let him _go._ He feels…guilty. He feels…_awful_.

But then he recalls that he was _dead._ That his being here is not _right._ It's a perversion of the intended order of things.

"Claud," he starts.

But he doesn't know where to go.

He's trying to think, trying to figure out what to say. Her death grip on his shoulder doesn't help. He runs through the possibilities, all of them accusations. _You were wrong to do this. This isn't what I wanted. You've inadvertently destroyed my faith. You were crazy to try this. You've wasted your time. Your effort. All those years were for nothing._

But then…

"God, Steve…I just…_you were gone."_ She tells him, sounding hollow.

He has to blink rapidly to keep from tearing up.

He doesn't tell her that she's done wrong. He doesn't tell her that she's shattered his faith, that she's gone against his every wish. He doesn't tell her that she's crazy for doing this. He doesn't tell her that she's wasted her time and effort on him.

Instead, he remains mute. He lets her cling to his shoulder, lets her silently cry to herself. Becausethis might not be what he wants…but it's she needs.

And he decided a while back that her needs were important to him; important enough to put them first, and to place his own on the back burner.

He tries to remember when it was exactly that he knew he'd do whatever it took to protect her. Maybe it was after she told him about Joshua, and her long years spent trying to get him back. Maybe it was after a few late-night snack sessions, relating tales of near-death experiences with artifacts.

Or maybe it was the day he opened his mouth to call her for dinner, and almost said 'Olivia.'

He smiles. _Yes. That's when it all began._

After a while he clears his aching throat.

"So…does it count as a rebirth if you're put back in your own body?" he mutters weakly. Claudia looks up at him, a kind of dumbfounded expression on her face. She can't tell that he's joking. So he grins a little, and reiterates the question. "Well?"

She sniffs, and laughs. A heartfelt, relieved, genuine _laugh._ And he can suddenly feel the absence. He can _sense_ that he hasn't heard that laugh in ages. That he hasn't heard too much of anything.

"I…dunno, Jinksie." She admits, still laughing and still crying. "I think it counts."

"I hope so." He mutters, struggling to stand. She notices his tight jawline, and the stiffness of his limbs. She helps him up as best she can. They both end up wheezing at the effort.

"I have an excuse," he jokes, marveling at his ability to keep such a level head about all this…this 'no longer dead' business. Not only that, but he can poke fun at the situation, too. "I've been six feet under for the past few years. You, on the other hand, are just plain out of shape." Which isn't exactly true. If anything, she looks a little thinner since he last saw her.

"Never was _in_ shape, actually. Us hackers…we aren't an athletic bunch." She says. She leans against the slab. Her expression is once again serious. "Look, Steve…I…I get that…the joking thing. I get that maybe you're in shock…that maybe it's a coping mechanism."

"Sounds accurate."

"See…that's the shock talking, I think." Now she looks worried. "I really think we should…" she takes a deep breath before she finishes her sentence. "Head back to the Warehouse."

"I thought you said it was destroyed."

"It was. This is…a different Warehouse. I guess you could call it Warehouse 14."

"…Is it still—"

"It was moved, but it's still in the Badlands."

"…"

_Ah. Here's the real decision._ He realizes.

Sure, it's one thing to decide that he's forgiven her. That he's going to ignore the logical part of his brain that's screaming for him to get back on that slab and go back to the nothingness. But _this._ This is another decision entirely. This is essentially deciding if he wants to return to the place that _got him killed_.

Does he want to go back?

Is he ready to return to the land of the living?

"I…" he starts. "I get that we need to talk." He agrees. "But…I don't know…if I'm ready to go back there."

_I don't know if I'll ever be ready._

"Okay." She nods, looking a little dejected, and a little lost.

"We could go someplace…closer?" he suggests after a few beats of silence. "Someplace a little less…cold." He shudders. "And maybe someplace with food." Because _God,_ he's starving! Who knew being dead could work up such an appetite?

Claudia smiles.

"I think that can be arranged." She tells him quietly. He returns the smile, and reaches for her arm to steady himself as they head for the door. She happily offers it, grasping his hand in her own. Again, the warmth spreads through his palm, and radiates up his wrist, into his arm…

And he starts to feel alive again.

**XXXX**

**Well! This turned out a bit more sappy than intended. Apologies. Anyways! This isn't the end…there's one more chapter in this fic…and then it's officially DONE! Hopefully folks enjoyed this extra, bonus bit of 'Alone.' But! Even if you didn't, feel free to let me know in a review! :) **


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